Crazy Train
by Etrixan
Summary: They'd tried running; always moving, chasing one hunt after another, but it didn't help so they decided to stand still for a while. Even standing still doesn't help them run from their past. Content warnings apply.
1. Prologue

**Summary**: They'd tried running; always moving, chasing one hunt after another, but it didn't help so they decided to stand still for a while. Even standing still doesn't help them run from their past.  
**Characters**: Dean, Sam, Bobby, Castiel  
**Pairings**: Dean/OFC  
**Disclaimer**: Based on characters created by Eric Kripke, I play with them for fun not profit.  
**Rating**: NC-17  
**Warnings**: Angst, drama, bdsm (incl knife-play), language, m/f, OC, descriptions of torture, violence; Spoilers for up to 5.14, My Bloody Valentine.

* * *

**Prologue**

The brutality of the attack was stunning.

One moment Dean was walking into the dim room and then he was down, hit across the back with a tire iron. A hard kick to the side of the head with heavy boots made sure he stayed down. He was sure something had gone crunch because his vision blurred and his motor control fizzed down to nada. That would have been bad enough, if that had been all of it, but it wasn't. His attacker took turns, using the iron on his chest and arms, and his boots to Dean's belly and legs, until bones cracked and blood ran and all his muscles felt like liquid pain that rolled in endless waves from one end of his body to the other.

"This is what you deserve. This is for everything." His attacker's voice came out of the blurry gloom. He recognized it and knew what this was about; knew that he deserved the beating but still didn't want it..

Dean threw up, moaning weakly. He looked at his attacker, standing nearly on top of him. He couldn't see him well but Dean could tell the guy was pretty happy with himself. It had been there in his voice. Oh Christ… this wasn't going to end well.

"Stop," Dean shouted although it came out as a whisper. "You don't want to do this."

He tried to squirm out of range, rolling slowly onto his belly and reaching out a hand to pull himself away. A large boot landed on his wrist and pressed down. Dean could feel the heavy tread leaving imprints on his bloated skin as it pushed and pushed… The snap of breaking bone was audible. The pain travelled up his arm like a freight train and knocked his breath away so that he couldn't even scream. He wished the guy would kick him a couple more times in the head and either knock him out or kill him. Either would be better than this.

Then it was back to tire iron and boots until, at some point, he couldn't think, didn't want to. His world was pain, fire and agony; his old familiar playgrounds.

The attacker looked down at Dean's body. It was an unrecognizable mass, bent, broken, and cracked open like a soft-cooked egg. It looked exactly like he'd wanted it to. He shifted his gaze to his silent companion who smiled at him in approval. "Now, didn't that feel good?" his companion asked in his soft, smooth voice.

"It felt damn good," Sam wiped the blood off his face and smiled back.

_This is KMLS and my name is Luke, helping you start, a lazy Saturday morning._  
_Actually, most people are just getting home from the bars so maybe I'm helping you end your Friday._  
_Either way, since New Year's is the time for assessing and evaluating your life,_  
_here's hoping 2010 brings you enlightenment and the resolutions you're looking for._

Sam woke up in the cheap motel bed. He was flat on his back, not standing over his brother's ruined body. His face was damp though so he put an anxious hand on it to check... It was clear, not red, so sweat, not blood.

Sam gulped in relief.

"Hey there, sunshine," Dean said from the darkness. "Bad dream?"

Sam looked over. Sure enough, Dean was at the tiny table, fully dressed with a bottle of beer in his hand, sitting in the dark as he often did these days. "Yeah," Sam finally managed. His voice was hoarse. "What time is it?"

Dean shrugged and took another swallow. "I dunno. Four, five… somewhere in there."

Sam sat up and rubbed shaking hands over his face, through his hair, trying to get that last image out of his brain. "Did you get any sleep at all?"

"Nah," Dean answered. "It was your turn to have the nightmare."

Sam almost laughed. Dean may have said it lightly but it was true. Neither one of them was sleeping great these days, not since they'd helped Martin out with the wraith. Being forced crazy had loosened up things inside both of them, things that were refusing to stay buried.

"Lucifer riding your ass?" Dean asked bluntly though not unkindly.

"I guess. Sorta" Sam flopped back down.

Quiet fell between the brothers. The only sound was the trucks on the highway and the clink of the beer bottle hitting the table, each lost in their own useless spiral of regrets and fears. Sam could still feel the 'zing' that had run up his arms when the tire iron had connected, when he'd hit hard enough to break skin and shatter bone. He'd been so angry. Again. Still. Forever and ever, Amen.

He sighed. "This isn't working, Dean," he finally said.

"What isn't?"

"This... what we're doing; chasing anything anywhere as long as it keeps us moving. I don't feel better or calmer or more focussed." He had to pause to gather enough courage to tell the truth. "I feel like a hard wind will make me shatter."

"Sam—"

"No, hear me out." Sam interrupted his brother's stock protest when the conversation became too 'girly'. "Even if we figure out a way to kill Lucifer—which we haven't—we're in no shape to face him... _I'm_ in no shape to face him." That was as close as the younger man could come to saying what he really feared: that he'd give in, that he'd say 'yes' just because he didn't know who he was anymore—didn't know _what_ he was.

"So what, then?" Dean growled out.

The idea was just there, like it had been sitting in his mind waiting for the opportunity to come out. "We've tried running and that hasn't worked. Maybe we should try staying still." He turned to look at his brother but Dean was hidden in the darkness. Sam knew he'd be frowning, though, lips pursed and one eyebrow up.

"Stay still?" he asked back. Sam grunted an affirmative. "Plant ourselves here in the motel?"

"Not here." _God_ no, Sam thought but didn't say. Motels, hotels, inns and hostels; they were all he'd known growing up and they were, in a way, a symbol of just how effed up their lives were. "Let's go to Bobby's."

It was perfect. They'd still be connected to the network of hunters if something urgent came up or there was a new lead they could follow. Bobby was family—or as close as they had left aside from each other—and Bobby had a house, a real home. Suddenly Sam wanted that, wanted the stability of it; of having a fixed address, of coming home to the same place, the same walls, the same bed, even if it was just for a little while. Not for himself so much as for Dean. It used to be his dream but it wasn't anymore. Now, it was his brother's dream, buried and burning inside his soul, never admitted to, never voiced and that was too bad.

Dean had been a good hunter, maybe even a great one, but he was tired and had been even before Hell. These days, Sam could see the cracks in his older brother getting bigger and bigger and he was afraid that when Michael pushed Dean would break. Not because he was weak, but because he was weary of the fight and unable to deal with losing more people they cared about.

A break, to just _be_, could be enough to boost Dean's confidence out of the pit it had fallen into, might be enough to help Sam get a grip on his own emotions, so Sam held his breath and waited for his brother's response.

"For how long?"

It wasn't a yes, but it wasn't a rejection either. Sam let out his breath.

"Until we're ready to move again." He could see Dean playing with the beer bottle, turning it in small circles on the tabletop, thinking, considering.

"Okay," he finally said. It was firm and steady, like the older Winchester hadn't just turned their lives upside down. He snorted, taking another pull from the bottle. "Maybe Bobby's got something to ward off nightmares and we'll both get some sleep."

* * *

**AN**: There were two major inspirations for this story. One, Sam's revelation at the end of Sam, Interrupted. It was the first time he'd acknowledged that most of his anger was pointless and that it helped no one, especially not himself. I thought it was a big turning point for him and I'm sorry the writer's didn't (get a chance to) explore this futher. The second inspiration was hearing Everlast's cover of Johnny Cash's Folsom Prison Blues and having this instant picture in my head of how Dean would react. This is my attempt to blend these two, completely disparate ideas, into one entity. I hope you enjoy it. [25 Oct 2010]


	2. Stop and Go

**Warnings: **Nothing specific; just language and spoilers for up to 5.14, My Bloody Valentine

* * *

**Chapter 1: Stop and Go**

It took them a bit longer to get to Bobby's than Sam had planned.

First there was the angry spirit that was attacking the family of their old babysitter. Donna had been one of their father's better choices for temporary caregiver. Sam could still remember the cookies she'd baked for their lunches. They'd had to take care of that one. Then there was Anna. Her plan for retroactive abortion had to be stopped although, from what Dean said later, they needn't have bothered. The archangel Michael took care of Anna and their parents and made it so that nothing changed: Mom died, Dad hit the road and every awful thing in their lives happened all over again. That's when he started noticing the biggest changes in his brother, the empty blankness in the eyes. It was like Dean was just going through the motions of being alive, pretending to have hope when every branch of it inside him was withered and dry.

Sam was beginning to panic. Suddenly, _he_ was the strong one, the 'we'll muddle through this somehow' one and he didn't know how to play that role, not with Dean.

It wasn't until after they fought Famine that they made it to Bobby's. They had no choice at that point. Sam needed a place to dry out and the older hunter's panic room was the perfect place. Cas beamed him over since they all agreed that getting him locked down, like, _right now_, was the priority. No way Dean could've handled him jonesing in the car in the middle of nowhere.

Even with the use of angelic zapping, he'd already developed the shakes by the time they landed at Bobby's door. He'd forgotten... he'd forgotten how _good_ it felt to be powerful, in charge, and damn near unbeatable. By the time Cas was swinging the door shut, he didn't want to detox, in fact he thought it was a really shitty idea. That's when he'd started to shout, screaming curses and promises at them if only they'd let him out and trust him to be good because he could handle it. Shortly after there was no more thinking or shouting. There was just pain.

He didn't remember too much of that. Later, he'd be thankful.

_You're listening to KUSR; Sioux Falls' student powered and community funded FM radio station._  
_That was Smashing Pumpkins with The Beginning is the End is the Beginning_  
_because we all know that's what's happening out there._  
_I'm telling you, the news? It's all death and disaster and the end of the world._  
_Hopefully Armageddon holds off long enough for me to play Final Fantasy XIII at least once._

Dean arrived two days after Sam and Cas, driving the Impala into the yard and feeling beat down and wore out.

When he walked into the house, Cas and Bobby weren't talking much, which was probably the safest option considering Bobby still resented that the angel couldn't heal his legs and Castiel still didn't know how to do small talk. Dean knew that their truce, though real, was uneasy; more a matter of avoided topics rather than companionship. If they'd been looking to the older Winchester to ease the tension it didn't work because Dean didn't have much to say, not to Bobby, not to Castiel and certainly not to Sam screaming his lungs out in the panic room. He may have tried talking to God once or twice but the asshole never answered so he gave that up as a bad joke.

Castiel stuck around only a couple more days after Dean showed up but Dean wasn't surprised that he wanted out. He knew Cas felt guilty about a lot of stuff. He knew the angel was more and more convinced that only God would be able to help them, not just to defeat Lucifer but also to heal the wounds in the Winchesters' souls—wounds that Castiel had helped put there. Yes, he'd been under orders, but that didn't change the fact that _he_ had talked Dean into torturing Alistair, _he_ had freed Sam to kill Lilith and, even when he had realized his error, he had been too late to fix it. Then there were Bobby's legs…

Once, Cas had told Dean that he felt he made the old hunter (he'd paused delicately) snarky. Dean had still been able to laugh then.

This time, Dean didn't say anything when Cas announced his decision to leave, but he never commented on Castiel's search for God anymore. He just made sure the angel hadn't lost his necklace, raised his beer in salute and gave him an encouraging nod, and that was that. Bobby offered to help by doing research and Dean nearly snorted because, really, God's location wouldn't be found in a book or on a website. Most likely it was just a way to keep the hunter's mind busy and off his worry for both the boys. Dean wasn't interested enough to ask.

The unfortunate thing about Cas leaving was that it left just Dean and Bobby and, by that point, Bobby had questions.

Dean didn't want questions, especially not the questions Bobby wanted to ask.

It would've been okay if the old hunter had stuck to facts and figures: what had happened, when and where; what had they found out. Those questions would've been easy. Unfortunately Cas had obviously blabbed about the confrontation with Famine. It seemed that, while Cas' vessel had been obsessed with hamburger, Cas had still been inside Jimmy, watching and listening and fucking _recording_ everything that Jimmy's craving hadn't let the angel pay attention to. He'd told Bobby about what the Horseman had said to Dean and what Sam had done to stop him.

_...that's one deep dark nothing you got there, Dean..._

Fucking angels; why'd Cas have to develop a big mouth now?

His first tactic to avoid Bobby's questions was to put the Impala into the shop and give her a tune-up. He thought that the rough ground would be too much for the wheelchair. He was wrong. Bobby'd had someone put down cement from his house to the shop. It was uneven, cracked and grown through with weeds, and the old hunter cursed like a banshee, but he made it.

Next Dean turned on the power tools and turned up the radio figuring no one would shout over all that noise. Bobby just unplugged everything and proceeded to poke and prod at stuff that was better left alone. So Dean raised the plugs to outlets that were above Bobby's head but Bobby just grabbed a bar and whacked them out again. He nearly brained Dean once, swinging the pole around. After that, Dean left the plugs in the lower outlets. Instead he learned how to operate the tow truck and started taking the rare call that still came into the yard. Mostly overflow from one of the bigger outfits in Sioux Falls. It was perfect.

Bobby finally threw up his hands, dramatically saying he wasn't Dean's mother. He insisted Dean wear the fugly safety coveralls with the reflective stripes and Dean could tell he was waiting for an argument or some whining or some teasing about being a mother after all. Dean just shrugged and put them on, unable to work up the energy to care.

_I still have deep feelings for this boy I fell in love with in Grade 3._  
_We shared our sandwiches near the teeter-totter and he rescued me from spiders._  
_He walked me home and we held hands. Then one day he was gone. I never forgot him and_  
_He still holds a place in my heart. Little Sammy Winchester. What a cutie..._  
_So, for Valentine's Day here's My Love is Alive by Gary Wright_

Three days after Castiel took off Sam was ready to come out of the panic room. He was shaky and pale but he was clean once again.

Dean had to half carry him everywhere the first couple days, and he could barely eat two bites of anything no matter how much it resembled baby food. "It's okay, Sam," Dean murmured, taking over the fork in mid-meal, "I gotcha."

"I hate this," Sam responded even as he tucked his shaky arm away in his lap.

"I know," Dean agreed, but Sam knew that Dean didn't know because he'd never wanted anything the way Sam had wanted that demon blood.

The cold turkey method had been a lot less thorough—and a lot more painful—than the supernatural methadone he'd been granted before, but it _had_ worked—physically. Mentally, emotionally, he could feel the craving in the back of his mind, in the pulse of his body, faint but always there. He thought he should be able ignore the craving for the most part, probably _could_ ignore it as long as he didn't get too close to any bleeding demons any time soon. The longer Bobby's phones stayed quiet the more steady Sam felt and the better able to resist temptation in the future.

He was still angry, though, and that scared him.

He couldn't help but remember what Lucifer had said back in Carthage, about how he'd need Sam's anger, his rage, and to know that it was still in him was scaring the spit out of him. He worked hard regaining his strength and he worked just as hard trying to understand why he felt that way; why he was angry.

When he'd forgiven his dad—so young and idealistic—for things John hadn't done yet, it had been real and he'd truly felt like he was getting a handle on his past and the way they'd been raised—which was his usual scapegoat for all his anger. But that was before he'd gulped down the demon blood and it had all come boiling back; fury, rage and a blind urge to destroy the thing that had sent the demons to him.

When he'd held down Famine's hand and watched Dean chop its finger off, he'd felt a fierce, ugly, exultation that had reminded him of how it had been with Ruby. That's when he knew he hadn't let go of his rage, he'd just changed targets and any target would do: Dad, Dean, Yellow-Eyes, Lilith, Ruby, even Lucifer. They were all the same—just excuses for him to feel furious. It was this mass, like a churning living pit, still inside him waiting to explode all over something or somebody.

Sam knew he needed to find some way to get rid of it or at least control it better and he had no fucking clue where to start...

He followed Dean's example and tried to keep busy. He scrounged up some stuff he could use as free weights so he could rebuild the muscle he'd lost in the panic room. They were unbalanced and kind of awkward but better than nothing. He hoped that feeling strong physically would maybe help him overcome the desire to feel strong in other ways.

It didn't help much.

Next thing he did was work on Bobby's vast collection of books and scrolls. He built more shelves so they could move the piles away from corners, where it was too easy for the wheelchair-bound hunter to run into them. He placed the ones Bobby used more often close to his desk or on a lower level. He even did a basic sort by subject matter: pagan gods over here; cleansing rituals and exorcisms over there. Sam shifted and sorted and cleaned because why the hell not? In fact, he soon had the main floor so tidy that dust couldn't even find a place to hide.

It didn't help enough.

Out of self-defence, he learned how to cook. Bobby fried everything and his idea of a salad was a couple slices of cucumber in a ham and cheese sandwich, and Dean... Dean would stand at the counter looking at the raw food as if it had been beamed in from outer space before putting it all back and pulling out a beer instead.

So, Sam learned how to prepare a meal.

He looked up simple recipes online and tried them out. It wasn't difficult, certainly no harder than assembling a hex bag. He could even bully Dean into eating by claiming hurt feelings if his older brother didn't even try the food he'd cooked. Dean would look at him, knowing it was bullshit but giving in because it was Sam and he had always taken care of Sam, physically and emotionally. Sam counted the meals as a win two ways: Dean didn't lose the empty, haunted look but at least he stopped looking so gaunt, and it gave Sam's mind something else to focus on aside from his desire for blood.

Of course, because he was doing the cooking, it became Sam's job to do the shopping too. He wasn't allowed to go into Willett, right next door. No, Bobby insisted without explaining, that he go into Sioux Falls which was twice the distance. He'd tried walking it once, but he wasn't up to that level of exertion yet.

Dean would've let him use the Impala without a word but it didn't feel right to take all their weapons to the grocery store. Plus, half the time, there were bits missing because Dean was working on her and it couldn't leave the yard until some part or other came in. It just wasn't practical. Neither was taking Bobby's big old van with is one mile per gallon gas consumption and specialized controls. He came up with the idea of fixing Bobby's old Chevelle and bugged Dean until he worked on it with him.

He wasn't as good a mechanic as Dean but he was better than he had been. His biggest problem was that his hands were too big to reach in between parts to loosen clamps or bolts. But he _could_ help now and, even better, Dean would let him and it let _them_ work their way into some kind of new relationship.

He hoped.

It was hard to tell because Dean still wouldn't talk about anything that mattered, not really.

Sam had heard some of what Famine had said, not clearly, not with so many demons around pushing his hunger to heart-pounding levels but he'd heard enough. He tried to bring it up, to tell Dean that his life had value, to reassure him that they'd find a way. Questions and reassurances tumbled out of _his_ mouth but the older Winchester would skirt around the subject, skate over it or simply ignore it, and that left Sam watching more and more of the light leave Dean's eyes while the dark circles under them grew, and it felt more and more that he was trying to bail out a boat with a slotted spoon.

He didn't know how to snap Dean out of it.

It was on one of his supply runs into Sioux Falls that Sam saw the Whole Being Wellness Center. A new age-y place with ferns and crystals in the windows, it advertised programs for physical, mental and emotional health. At first he thought of how much Dean needed stuff like that and then he realized that he could maybe use it too. Still, they couldn't afford to pay for those kinds of classes so there was no point in thinking about it. That's when he noticed the sign beside the door: Help Wanted. He stopped the car in the next open space, walked back and asked for an application.

The girl at the reception desk smiled at him and leaned forward so he could better appreciate her low cut t-shirt. He smiled politely in return and made sure to keep his distance and he asked about the position and the facility; about the owners and the business. The job wasn't much, just cleaning up and stocking the towels, but it came with free use of the equipment and he could join in any of the programs they offered if it wasn't already full. In other words, it was perfect.

Dean was going to laugh his ass off but Sam wanted to try the meditation class.

_The CDC is still trying to figure out what caused the mass hysteria over in Ames, Iowa._  
_They don't know whether it was transmitted through contact or in the water._  
_Whether it was a virus or bacteria or an alien invasion, they just don't know._  
_All I know is that it's some scary shit we're seeing out there._

"You want to do _what_?" Dean asked incredulously. He stared up at Sam from his position on the creeper, feeling somewhat grateful that his brother had waited until he was finished under the car before dropping this little bombshell.

"Meditation," Sam answered. His colour was high but his voice was steady.

"Huh," Dean didn't know what to say. To give himself time he pulled himself off the creeper and onto his feet. He straightened a little slower than he had five years ago, probably slower than even two years ago. The angels may have fixed up his body when they'd pulled him out of Hell but they'd fucked up everything else and he didn't bounce the way he used to. Fucking blackmailing dick angels…

"And you think this'll help?"

"It's just that..." Sam paused, trying to find words to explain what he didn't really understand. "I don't know why I'm so angry. Most people they can point to something, some incident in their lives that made them angry: abused as a kid or abandoned or picked on—something. Me..." he trailed off and shrugged helplessly, "I just remember being angry."

He looked at his older brother, the man who been looking after him all his life. "What was I like as a kid?"

Dean looked at him, frowning. "I dunno, Sam, you were a kid. I mean, you pouted, and you whined some, but you didn't have temper tantrums or try to set anything on fire. How do I know if you were angrier than other kids? I didn't know any other kids. You didn't start really arguing with Dad until you hit junior high." He shrugged, "I just figured it was hormones."

"So nothing happened," he asked again.

Dean snorted. "Yeah, plenty happened. Mom died. Dad freaked. We grew up in motels mostly by ourselves, and we moved every couple months. Our holidays sucked and so did our birthdays. But did you ever get abused or molested? Absolutely not."

Sam had one more idea. "What if it's the demon blood?"

Dean shook his head, "Sam..."

"Yellow Eyes gave me his blood when I was _six months old_. We can't know how much that might've changed me."

"Even if that's true, what difference does it make now? It's not like we can get you a transfusion or that it would change anything." It was way beyond mere blood and they both knew it. "You are who you are and that's it."

Sam shrugged uncomfortably, unwilling to let go of the idea. "I dunno; maybe I can fix it, redirect it or something."

"By meditating," Dean didn't quite manage to keep the scepticism from his voice. He waved an apology at his brother. Maybe it would work, maybe it wouldn't, either way, his brother had a plan and he was running with it. It was more than he had. Team Free Will… what a fucking joke. He picked up the ratchet but, rather than going back to work, he spun it restlessly in his hands.

He felt a little envious of his brother because at least Sam had thought of something to do. Dean… Dean was out of ideas. He felt like he was paddling with chopsticks in an ocean of shit and he was getting tired, beyond tired.

…_because it's not random; it's not chance. It's a plan that is playing itself out perfectly…_

Actually, once he got over the shock, he felt kind of proud of Sam; who'd have thought a _Winchester_ would come up with a plan like that: meditating instead of shooting—freaking bizarre—but really, why the hell not? It's not as if shooting the devil had done any good...

"Okay, alright," he said, keeping his voice strong, hoping he sounded supportive or something, "I still think you're worrying about it too much but if you think it will help then, I guess... go for it."

It sounded so lame and fucking _girly_ that Dean felt embarrassed at having said it. Which was all levels of fucked up but then he _was_ fucked up so it all fit. As Sam headed out of the garage, Dean couldn't help but add a joke. "See if you can get me pictures of naked women in the showers."

It was even more lame that the emo-shit and Dean wished he could take it back.

He wished he could take so much back...

_...following in Daddy's footsteps, you want to make a deal..._

Most nights he didn't sleep, just lying in his bed with his mind whirling with 'what ifs' and 'if onlys'. What if they'd been faster? If only he'd been smarter. Blah, blah, blah. He couldn't change it now and he _hated_ that he couldn't let it go. That all the wrong turns and bad choices were haunting him. Although, when it wasn't full of that stuff, it was full of memories. He'd see Sam dead, or worse, alive in a white suit and so not Sam. He remembered his dad; he remembered Ellen and Jo, and Ash... or rather Ash's arm. There was Pamela and Agent Henriksen, Dr. Corman the coroner, Nancy the cute little secretary, and poor old Ron. He knew he'd saved people, a lot of people, but somehow they were harder to remember.

He'd cut down on the booze since coming to Bobby's. He'd given the old hunter such a hard time for drinking too much after _he'd_ died that it felt vaguely hypocritical to use the same crutch now. Dean could've done it with somebody else, somebody he respected less, but this was _Bobby_ and he couldn't.

It meant he couldn't drink himself into a blank stupor and sleep dreamlessly so sleep was full of Hell; the pain and Alistair's voice dripping into his mind. He'd wake up, muscles twitching with the memory of being taken apart, throat sore with the memory of screaming. No way to go back to sleep after that so he'd just head over to the shop and mess around doing nothing much of anything but especially not thinking, not remembering.

Or there were the Hell dreams that were all about saying 'yes'. Of ending the pain and picking up the knife. Of cutting into some poor soul and _loving_ it. He'd wake up hard and aroused from those dreams and then he'd spend the next hour in the bathroom puking up whatever he'd managed to swallow the day before.

Neither of those types of dreams were actually original—he often dreamed of his time in Hell—but they seemed more intense than before, more like they'd been when he first got out of the pit. He'd been doing pretty good at _not_ remembering clearly what it had been like down there but now, thanks to Lucifer trying to recreate Hell on Earth, the dreams had been so strong, vivid, like they were happening right now. Old dreams made freakishly new.

Of course, for a change of pace, he could dream of Famine, that desiccated, disgusting old man who'd first looked at him and then had looked _inside_ him.

In his dreams, Famine placed that stick-like hand on Dean's chest and somehow reached into him and pulled the void out of his soul. And the void became a living thing that swallowed him up until he felt transparent, non-existent—like after the crash when he'd nearly died and he'd been a spirit. In his dream, he'd wake up and it would feel real and he'd wander around Bobby's yard trying to get somebody to notice him, but nobody saw him, nobody heard him, nobody touched him. Nobody wanted to. Not even Tessa whom he'd find hanging around someplace. She'd be standing there with blood flowing like a river from the cut across her throat. Then he'd wake up for real and spend an hour standing in front of the mirror running shaky hands over his body, reassuring himself that he was real and alive, not a ghost—not a void.

Whatever dream he had, when he woke that was it; he never managed to get back to sleep.

He knew that was a bad thing. He knew he was losing his edge because his mind was fuzzy and his reactions were off. Sometimes he could barely make out objects he was staring at. The work in the yard was demanding physically but it didn't shut down his brain and it didn't make him tired _enough_. Half the time he found he didn't care. What did it matter if some demon or spirit got the best of him and turned him into a bloody smear? Then he'd look at Sam, working so hard to tip the odds in his favour, and Bobby, screwed to hell by Zachariah because he was a friend of theirs, and he'd remember why he had to care.

Now he just had to figure out a way to do it.

* * *

It surprised him how easily Dean had accepted the idea of him learning how to meditate, working at a place that played harps and bird calls...Not that he'd told Dean about the music; he wasn't ready to push his luck that far.

"_Okay, alright. If you think it will help then, I guess... go for it."_ No jokes, no jeering, just support. It was what Dean used to do when they were in elementary school and Dean taught him how to read because he knew how much it would mean to his baby brother to know how to do what all the other kids knew already. The flash of memory was painful because it seemed like it had happened to someone else in some other history but, no. That had indeed been him and Dean once.

Then Dean had thrown in his obligatory crude comment. _"See if you can get me pictures of naked women in the showers."_ Classic Dean. It would've been reassuring if Sam had believed that Dean meant it.

The Centre was a nice place, clean and well-run. He was actually getting used to the harp music that played in the therapy areas. He used the gym in the off hours and that was fun as he'd never done any formal training on proper equipment before. All his muscles came from digging out old coffins and wrestling monsters. It was kind of nice just to sit and concentrate on the movements, to feel muscles and tendons stretch and relax, and to have his only worry be keeping his wrists locked. Nobody in the gym was trying to kill him or take over his body. It was a refreshing change.

Before he'd even started, he'd decided that he would do his job and not get to know anyone but, as much as he might like to fade into the background, he was just too big. It wasn't even as if his was a frontline job either: he wiped down the equipment, he did the laundry, he restocked the bathroom, he mopped the floors, and he kept to himself as much as he could. It should've been easy to be invisible. Except the second day he worked, Lorna, the Centre's co-owner, took a long look at the bags under his eyes and dragged him off for a body wrap and a facial. "Can't have the staff looking unhealthy," she'd said.

Sam could appreciate the sentiment if not the result because, now they all wanted to talk to him, as if being dragged helplessly behind a five foot nothing whirlwind had pulled down his barriers before he'd even built them.

Now even the customers chatted with him when they ran across him in the corridors. They involved him in gossip about stars Sam had barely heard of, they gave him career advice or tried to recruit him to sell stuff for them and, of course, a lot of them wanted to flirt, some casually and some seriously. It wasn't just the women either; he had male customers make passes at him too, even had his assed grabbed by guys a couple times. It had been weird at first but Sam remembered Stanford and how he'd that the same rejections worked on both females _and_ males. After that it didn't bother him anymore, it just became a thing that he was never, ever going to tell Dean.

He also became fair game for all of the therapy technicians: facials, hair treatments, reflexology sessions and massages, he got to be practice dummy for all of them. He'd drawn the line at the manicures but had been conned into a pedicure by Cindy's sad eyes and disappointed face. It was another thing he was never, _ever_, going to tell Dean because it had felt fucking fantastic. Tension had just drained out of him and he'd actually managed to sleep through the night.

He managed to attend three meditation sessions in between working. They sat on mats on the floor in a group, lights dim, music soft, breathing and Sam tried to picture all his anger leaving him on the out breath. So far, all he'd felt was silly but it was early days yet. He'd had his rage for a long, long time. It wasn't likely he'd get rid of it in a week. Still, it was like he had this clock in his head and it was telling him that he was running out of time and if Sam itched to be back on the road searching for answers, he buried it under dirty, sweaty gym towels or dirty, dusty books or dirty, greasy cars. It was mostly okay.

_Between wars, famine and disease, the UN estimates_  
_that this is likely to be one of the deadliest years ever recorded._  
_It's still not even close to the death rate caused by the Black Death in the 1300's so, whatever._  
_Besides, life has a 100 percent fatality rate so worrying about it won't change anything._  
_So take a deep breath, relax, and try to enjoy what you have._

* * *

**AN:** There is a soundtrack for this story available in zip format for download. Just fix the url (take out spaces etc) and enjoy: www . megaupload . com / ? d=23x2xw9l


	3. Running in Place

**Warnings**: Language, teasing & loud music. Plus some accident site gore.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Running in Place**

When the Chevelle was done, it still wasn't pretty but the engine purred just fine. Sam had to push the driver's seat back nearly into the trunk before he fit, but he _did_ fit. He plugged his iPod jack into the lighter outlet and listened to Andrew Bird and The Screaming Trees and all the emo-alt-rock bands that were banned from the Impala. Dean came with him a couple times and listened to the tunes without a word of complaint or even an eye-roll.

When Sam asked him about it, all his brother had said was "Driver picks the music; shotgun shuts his cakehole." They'd smiled at each other and, for a moment, it was like the years slid away. Then the blankness slid back into Dean's eyes and it was Now again. And it was more, way more, than Sam could take. He wanted his brother back, the one who put itching powder in his underwear and used bad pick-up lines on single mothers; the one who played his music too loud and put every topping known to man on his sundaes.

"How much longer, man?" Sam asked because he needed to and Dean was trapped in the passenger seat.

Dean looked at him like he was nuts. "I dunno. You're the one driving."

Sam returned the look. "How much longer are we going to ignore everything that's happened? What did you say at the asylum? Push it all down; ignore it 'cause that's how we keep going."

"That's right," Dean's voice was hard, trying to block this conversation before it got started. Fucking feng shui horse shit class Sam was taking…

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, and how's that working for you, Dean. Slept through the night yet? I mean, without nightmares? 'Cause I can see how rested and refreshed you're looking after weeks of nobody trying to kill us or take over our minds."

Dean clenched his teeth. He so didn't want to get into this. "I'm fine."

This time Sam snorted in disgust. "I noticed. C'mon Dean, you don't joke. You don't smile. Grim doesn't even begin to cover it." Dean glared at him but Sam wasn't going to back down this time. Dean went back to staring out the window; using the 'if he couldn't shut him up, he could ignore him' tactic they'd perfected as children.

Sam ground his teeth but didn't stop. He couldn't. "You used to enjoy life. Even when we were covered in blood and shit and in so much trouble we couldn't see a way out, you had this, this _energy_, like you were having a blast. You liked being a hunter; it was all you wanted to do."

"I wanted to be a hunter," Dean said flatly.

"Yeah," Sam responded. "Now I'm not sure you even like being alive."

Dean finally looked at Sam and it was flat and cold. "All I got to say is; it beats the alternative. So I may not be doing the happy dance, but then neither are you and neither is Bobby, so just shut it already with the emo mumbo jumbo bullshit."

Sam did shut up because there was nothing he could use to argue with his brother. Absa-fucking-lutely nothing.

_I just got back from Ames where I attended my cousin's memorial service. Closed casket followed by a cremation because…  
well, mostly because the CDC's not taking any chances.  
To say good-bye, I'm going to play Farewell Ride by Beck, Ry Cooder's Feeling Bad Blues, and finish off with  
Paul Simon & Ladysmith Black Mambazo's version of Amazing Grace  
__Sleep well, Sheila Jane. God holds you in His heart._

There was blood and glass and small body parts all over the road but all Dean could do was smile politely at the officer in front of him.

He'd already been ragged on by the senior uniform who'd helpfully pointed out the gory bits that Dean should avoid when walking over to the wrecked car. Dean had looked the Sergeant in the eye and asked if he was supposed to puke now because he could if she really wanted him to. He could probably even manage to avoid her shoes if she'd prefer.

She'd laughed, clapped him on the shoulder and said he was okay. She had a great smile and warm eyes, and she reminded him of that deputy—Kathleen something—he'd worked with the time Sam had been taken by the hillbilly cannibals. Her, he wouldn't've minded talking to some more, despite the shiny sergeant's stripes. This guy in front of him, not so much…

It wasn't the deputy's fault that his name was Milton and that had a whole squad of unhappy associations. It wasn't the guy's fault that he was young and so new to the force that his uniform was still crisp and his shoes still gleamed. It wasn't his fault that all he could do was hope to be needed at a scene that was under control. And it wasn't his fault that his eagerness was cute in that sickeningly sweet puppy way that Dean had only ever tolerated from one person.

No, what really didn't endear the young officer to the hunter was that Deputy Milton was a hypocrite.

The kid spouted off about 'the tragedy of it all' and said he mourned 'the loss of bright futures' and Milton even quoted 'oh, the humanity' once, but Dean knew the guy was already planning his book tour and his appearance on Oprah and Dean wanted to fucking smash him right in his face.

Unfortunately, the only one Deputy Milton could share his excitement with, the only one as unoccupied as him, was Dean waiting by the tow truck for the go ahead. So he stood, in his fugly vest, and tried to shut the little moron out. When his cell phone rang he was so grateful he could've kissed his brother. Thank god he wouldn't have to but still, he would've if Sam had been standing in front of him.

"Dean, where you at?"

"Accident, waiting for the police to give the go ahead to clear out the vehicles," he answered. "Why?"

"What are you doing tonight?" Dean nearly turned to stare at the phone. What kind of question was that?

"Well, gee, Pinky, I'm doing the same thing I do every night." He didn't even bother trying to hide the sarcasm.

"How would you like to check out a haunting instead of taking over the world?" Sam asked with a laugh. "I heard a couple clients talking about this bar that's got this ghost walking around serving drinks."

"It's serving drinks," Dean repeated. He barely waited for Sam's murmur of agreement before continuing. "But it's not hurting people."

"Not so far but you know spirits; that could change."

It surprised Dean how eager his brother sounded even though he remembered every word Sam had said back in Housatonic about how he didn't want 'normal' anymore, how hunting was his life. Still... "I thought we weren't looking for hunts right now," he asked.

"We're not," Sam responded after a beat, "this one just kind of landed in our laps. So, you wanna check it out?"

Dean considered it for all of two seconds: stay at Bobby's researching non-existent ways to kill Lucifer, or spend the night in a bar where there might be pretty women and there'd definitely be booze. "Let's check it out."

_We've got all sorts of weirdity's being reported all around the Falls.  
__In honour of all the strange, we just heard The Hooters with their 80's hit, All You Zombies followed by The Ghost Inside by Broken Bells.  
Just our way of welcoming all of our former residents back to life—so to speak._

The bar was on the edge of the 'interesting' part of town. The old building was close to the train tracks and had obviously been converted from a warehouse. They'd either touched-up or recreated an old soda pop ad because the colours of the 40's era pin-up were crisp and bright. Dean made sure to park where he could appreciate the artwork as he had no objection to big curves and weird hair. He also appreciated the fact that it was Thursday so the lot was mostly empty and he didn't have to worry about fitting his baby into a slot the size of a Kia.

They stepped out of the Impala, doors creaking with reassuring familiarity, into a night filled with pounding bass. "This is a bar?" Dean asked because, yeah, bars could be loud but not generally loud enough to be heard in the next town over.

"Actually..." Sam's voice was a little hesitant, "It's a dance club."

"Cover charge?" Sam nodded and Dean shook his head in disgust. He couldn't imagine paying a place so he could go in and buy their beer.

"Don't worry," Sam smiled at him, "I got my first pay cheque today."

"Yeah?" Dean looked at him and couldn't help smiling back. "Look at you, Mistuh Tax-payuh. I guess you've got the first round then."

The front of the building was lit by a neon rooster whose rainbow coloured tail shifted up and down almost as if it were dancing to the beat. It was actually pretty cool, Dean thought, even if the music was going to suck. He'd never been to a dance club—no pool tables or dart boards—but he was pretty sure they didn't play Metallica.

Sam would probably fit right in, what with his college experience and all, but Dean didn't bother teasing him about it. College was years and eons ago and it certainly hadn't smartened his brother up in some areas, like trusting demons.

_...You don't know me. You never did..._

It was a bitter thought that had no place in the new reality they were trying to build so Dean pushed it away and tried to pretend that the choice Sam had made didn't still hurt.

To take his mind off of it, there were a couple good-looking women standing outside sharing a cigarette. They were huddled close to the building to get out of the wind and Dean could appreciate the need. They were dressed like models in a fashion magazine: dresses skin tight and shiny with short, short skirts and high, high heels that made their legs go _all_ the way up. Dean smiled because they were the best legs he'd seen in a long time and he was pretty sure they were attached to cocks at the top… damn it.

Then it hit him.

"What the fuck?" he growled as he glared at the open door.

Beside him Sam shifted uncomfortably. "Um, yeah, I should've told you. This is a gay club but lots of straight people come here too," he rushed on reassuringly, "College students and stuff."

Dean moved his glare to his brother. "Who gives a fuck about that? What the hell are they doing to Johnny Cash?" Sam blinked, speechless—which was good because Dean wasn't finished. "I mean, seriously; Johnny Cash turned into a dance tune? No wonder the place has pissed off spirits." Dean's voice dripped outraged scorn.

He stalked up the stairs ready to get this shit over so that they could get out of there quick, except Sam was still standing at the bottom staring at him. "C'mon, bitch. You're paying," he called down. It was only when the two queens looked at them—a long look from toes to hair and everything in between—that Dean realized the connotations of calling his brother a bitch at a gay club. He smirked: maybe he could have some fun after all.

Sam glared at him. "Don't even think it," he ordered as he walked past him to the ticket counter.

"Too late," Dean's smiled at him. He gave the 'ladies' a wink because, seriously, those legs deserved the praise. Then he followed his brother in.

They had to go through a metal detector but Sam had known about that so they were carrying only plastic blades, homemade and carefully etched with sigils that _should_ do some damage against the creepy-crawlies. They hadn't had a chance to try them but Dean figured untried was better than unarmed. Inside the sound hit him like a physical force. Holy _shit_, it was loud. The next thing to hit him was the heat. It had been chilly outside and Dean had bitched at Sam for talking him into leaving the leather coat in the car but, now that he was inside, he was glad he wasn't wearing it.

"Good thing it's not very crowded," Sam yelled into his ear over the song which was, mercifully, ending. Dean looked over the sea of bodies that were bouncing and swaying and doing other things that needed bedrooms or at least dark alleys. This wasn't crowded?

"So where does this spirit usually turn up?" he yelled back.

"Upper level," Sam answered. He looked around until he spotted the stairs. He pointed Sam in the direction they needed to go.

"Aren't you a tall one," purred into his ears from far too close. Accompanying the voice was a slim hand that grabbed his bicep and squeezed. Dean looked down into the face of a woman maybe his age, fake blond hair, faded blue eyes, and lots of living covered over with too much make-up.

"You should see me in stilettos," he replied as he removed the hand. He poked Sam to get him moving and poked again so he'd move faster. As they weaved through the crowd, Dean paid more attention to hands that might come too close. He wasn't a touchy-feely guy at the best of times and, all respect to Charles Dickens, these _weren't_ the best of times.

The music, if he wanted to call it that which, you know, he didn't, had changed to something equally horrifying, all mechanical voices and fake drums and what seemed like the same four words over and over again. If the roiling, hopping crowd was an indication, it was a popular song. He couldn't wait to get away from it.

They climbed the sweeping, curling stairs—he catalogued the fake iron railings—to the upper level. Despite being open on one side, with a view down into the undulating dancers, the sound was muted up here and Dean's shoulders dropped in relief. There were dim lights, small tables, deep couches and more people doing things that they really should've gotten rooms for although, considering the number of people just watching the ones making out, maybe that was part of the fun. And it wasn't just guy-on-guy action either. There were het hook-ups and a couple Girls Gone Wild scenarios. All in all, it was quite a show.

"Huh," Dean said.

"What?" Sam asked.

Dean could tell that Sam fully expected to be bitched at later for dragging his brother here but really, it was cool. Showing off wasn't really his thing but, whatever, consenting adults and all that. "Nothing," he shrugged off Sam's worry, "So what are we looking for?"

"Not sure really," the younger Winchester answered, his eyes bouncing around trying to avoid seeing things that weren't his business, "I checked the history of this place and there were no violent deaths; no murders, suicides or accidents."

"At a bar?" That was surprising.

"Gay bar in the Midwest," Sam pointed out. "Some of the city councillors and most of the local church groups would love an excuse to shut it down so it's been very careful not to draw that kind of crowd, hence the metal detector at the door." Dean nodded because it made perfect sense. "Before this it was a storage facility and a warehouse and before _that_ a cattle yard, as far as I can tell."

"Could it be ghost cows?" Dean asked, "Are we chasing the devil's herd?"

"Cute but no. The clients I overheard definitely said it was a woman serving drinks."

"Burial site? Sacred Indian ground?" Dean threw out the suggestions. "Sacrifices to the Porcelain God?"

Sam tried to maintain his serious-face but his lips quirked up. He was relieved to see his brother's matching smile. This hunt had been a great idea, something to take the edge off.

"No, no and definitely no," He countered Dean's suggestions, "Besides if this were the site of something nasty, the spirit would be angry and hurting people. But there's been no increase in reported accidents or insurance claims of any kind. The staff isn't turning over any faster than they did before, and the patrons are still well-behaved and law abiding."

"Freaky," Dean commented.

"According to the, admittedly few, stories I dug up before we got here, the spirit is always pleasant and professional. She was first spotted about six months ago but it's only in the last couple that the sighting count has sky-rocketed. She's becoming a bit of an attraction actually." Which meant the owners might not like them trying to get rid of her but Dean needed this simple hunt more than the club needed to sell a few more drinks on a weeknight so Sam refused to feel guilty.

Dean looked around, taking a moment to appreciate just how flexible that red-head was, before coming back to his brother. "So what changed six months ago?"

Sam looked away and shrugged his shoulders as if to resettle the weight on them and Dean realized that he must be tired or else that question would never have left his mouth so cavalierly. Just over six months ago, Sam let Lucifer out of his cage. He glanced an apology at his brother but again, whatever. If that was the cause then that was the cause.

But Dean didn't think so. "Maybe it's him but why only here? Why not all over the place? We've been keeping an eye out on the news and there's been no big jump in this kind of weird."

Sam made a smaller, less fraught shrug that acknowledged his brother's point but didn't concede the argument. "Maybe she was always here just not noticeable." Dean looked at him, eyebrows raised, asking him what had changed. "Three months ago he made Death rise," Sam suggested softly. "That fits in with the sighting spike."

Dean nodded agreement, blinking rapidly to keep his eyes clear. Sam said nothing. He knew that their failure to kill Lucifer, or to keep Ellen and Jo alive, was a barely healed wound. He'd tried to get Dean to talk about it, like he tried to get his brother to talk about all the big events of their lives, but the older man had shut him down. So now he waited; waited for Dean to gather his heart back up, stuff all his regrets back down, and get his mind back on the case.

"It fits but, again, why not everywhere? Why just this place?" Dean shook his head, "Nah. This has to be something specific to _here_."

He was looking around again when Sam hit him in the arm. "Dean, there!" Sam pointed. It took him a moment because the lights were low but she was obvious once he spotted her. Slim, young—late twenties maybe—and pretty, she was holding a tray with ashtrays and beer bottles on it. She was also slightly translucent and walked through couches and chairs as if they didn't exist. Entirely possible, Dean conceded, if the owners had remodelled since she'd worked here.

"She looks like a death echo," Sam said.

It was a thought. "Let's follow her. If she dies then we can use the 'how' to maybe figure out the 'who'."

They trailed behind the dead waitress as she moved from nonexistent table to nonexistent table, picking up empties and dumping ashtrays. They got some odd looks as they wove around the tables and couches that _did_ exist, since they were often occupied. Dean even got a couple invitations that he shook off with a smile. He kept himself focussed on the friendly ghost as she went into a stairwell they hadn't noticed before because it was tucked into a corner and totally enclosed. Sam reached the stairs before him and had already started down.

Dean was a couple steps behind. He could smell food so maybe this was the quick way to the bar's kitchen? Didn't matter, he decided. What mattered was that the ghost was putting her feet on the proper steps, despite being steep, and weirdly spaced, which meant they had been here when she was alive. So she was from sometime after the stairs were built but before the upstairs was redecorated. He was already figuring out which ID to use to gain free access to the building plans stored at city hall. They had to be careful; Sioux Falls was Bobby's home base and they couldn't risk screwing anything up for him, but Dean figured they could come up with something. It would make a nice change from broken cars and skeevy deputies.

As he approached the bottom of the stairs he could hear the sounds of an argument: a rumbling male voice interspersed with a lighter feminine tone. Sounded like trouble in paradise. Hopefully, Dean hoped the lovers would be too busy fighting to notice them trailing after the club's resident spook.

"Entering a gay dance club does _not_ prove that your love for me is overpowering," said the female. "It just proves you need some help and I should probably get a restraining order," she finished up and Dean nearly snorted in amusement.

"You shouldn't even _be_ here," said an angry male voice, "I can't have my future wife breaking the law!"

"I'm not drinking, you asshole. And I'm no longer your future anything." There was the slap of flesh on face. "Son of a bitch!" Dean's muttered curse was hidden under her much louder one.

The younger Winchester sped up, taking the steps three at a time, bouncing off the wall to make the final turn of the stairs. Dean followed at a slower pace because, if Sam needed to fight, he didn't want to be in the way. The stairs were narrow and Gigantor already took up too much space.

They were in time to witness a solid knee to the groin and the asshole let out a keening whine. Dean couldn't help it; he stopped where he was and winced. Sam was made of sterner stuff. He rushed up to the woman. "Are you alright?" he asked only to have to dodge a punch thrown wide and high.

"Sorry," the woman said, "Instinct." She looked briefly at Sam before turning back to her still moaning attacker. "Go home, Lance. Go home and find a girl who'll be content to live in your shadow because I'm not that person anymore."

The guy, Lance, looked up at her with a face filled with humiliation and anger and determination. Then he looked at Sam, hovering protectively, and smothered whatever urge to violence was brewing in his Cro-Magnon brain. The guy straightened and tried to smile. His eyes kept flicking to Sam's huge presence which made the effort worthless. "Just think about it, Vera. We were perfect together and you know it."

Dean could hear her exasperated huff from here. "I've thought about it and I'm not changing my mind. Come near me again and I'm calling the cops." Dean didn't think it was her calm, controlled tone that convinced the dick to leave since he flicked another glance up at Sam and it was a lo-ong way up for the guy, but he did leave. Dean relaxed.

"You handled that very well," Sam said turning to the girl, "but an empty staircase isn't the best place confront an angry ex." He said the last bit with a hint of a question.

"Yeah, he's an ex. Broke up when I came here for school," she explained. She wasn't tiny; not really, probably average in both height and weight which, for a woman, meant she was out-sized and out-muscled by the equally average-sized Lance. She was also pretty, Dean noted, in a fresh-scrubbed, college way that he recognized from hanging out at Stanford watching Sam. She was also totally mid-western white bread in looks: blondish hair, blue-ish eyes. Great lips and a certain confidence in her stance were the only things to set her apart from all the other college students he'd known. Actually, she kind of looked like the ghost waitress—shit! They'd lost her...

"I didn't know he was here, I mean, in town not just here in the club. Even if I'd known he was in Sioux Falls, this is the last place I'd've expected him to show up. I wonder if any of the 'ladies' squeezed his ass."

It was a weak joke but Sam chuckled anyway. Dean recognized it as a standard technique to relax the witness, make them more comfortable and more likely to talk openly. Since Sam had this situation well in hand, he decided to do a quick check up the stairs for the spirit but, like he'd figured, she was gone. Shitpissfuck, he thought. He really didn't want to come back here another night and have to listen to the crap they called music.

Time to gather up the troops and head out. He clattered back down the stairs and was in time to hear Sam introduce himself.

"Vera," the girl responded, shook his brother's hand. She smiled and wow, Dean noted, nice smile, went with the lips, maybe.

"This is my brother Dean." Sam waved a hand up the stairs at him and Vera turned to look.

Her reaction was so extreme and melodramatic that Dean figured they were being pranked.

She swore. She fell back against the wall. Then she raised a limp hand to cover her mouth as if she was about to faint or throw up. Neither option appealed to him so he was just as glad she didn't. Sam reached out steadying hands and she flinched away. Definitely overdone, Dean decided with a disgusted eye-roll.

He was just about to call her on it but her next words wiped away any concern either of them had: "Dean Winchester! So this was what, a joke? I'm still in Hell and this is a game cooked up by Alistair?" She shook her head, backing away, "Nah, he doesn't have the patience for this. This elaborate shit is all you. Fucking bastard!"

Dean stopped as if he'd been flash frozen which was how he felt so, yeah, appropriate. His hand was still out and he couldn't get it to come back to him. He was pretty sure, if he could've seen himself, he would've looked a lot like Vera right then.

Sam felt rather than saw the whiplash of shock than ran through his brother. A quick glance and he knew Dean was incapable of speech. He looked like he had after Dad died, after Jo and Ellen… Fury swelled inside him, filling his lungs and his veins; Dean was barely holding it together as is, he sure as fuck didn't need this. "Who are you?" he rasped, barely audible.

"Yeah right, I'm supposed to buy that," she scoffed. "Well screw that and screw you both! You might as well obliterate me now because I'm not letting you cut into me ever again." She turned and ran out into the club, and not some flouncy half-step but a full-on panicked sprint that had her plowing through people in her way.

When Sam would've gone after her, Dean grabbed his arm and stopped him. "Leave it, bro."

"But… how did she know that stuff?" Sam protested, hands clenching in angry rhythm. "She's gotta be a demon."

There was a fine tremor in Dean's hand which made Sam take another look at his brother, a _good_ look. Dean's freckles were vivid against his skin which was several shades paler than normal. More than his usual mien of bleak exhaustion, he was wearing an 'end of the road and Hell is waiting' look.

"Bobby would've seen signs if there was a demon in his backyard," Dean said. Sam had to concede the point. "I need a beer," he said and Sam could agree with that too.

They found a quiet hallway to drink their beers and Sam waited until they'd had a bottle each and another in front of them before asking the obvious question. "If she's not a demon, how does she know about Alistair?"

"And me," Dean added quietly. All the excitement of a hunt had fled from the older man.

"We need to find out what she is and why she's here," Sam said, "She's gotta be working for someone."

Dean just looked at him and took another long drink. He obviously wanted his brother to drop it but Sam couldn't. He was more convinced than ever that she was some kind of demon. It was the only thing that made sense. Maybe she was a scout, trying to find where they were hiding, he thought. It would make sense for Lucifer to have some of his forces staking out Bobby's place; someone on his team had to know how important the old hunter was to them. So if there was a demon in his home town, why hadn't Bobby spotted the signs, Sam wondered then thought that Bobby might've kept quiet about it out of respect for the semi-vacation thing they had going.

He watched the stoic emptiness fill his older brother's eyes and decided to check for signs on his own when they got home later. And if the girl _was_ a demon, he'd take care of her on his own too.

_Some people find it scary to live life in the dark. Like Death is just outside the circle of light.  
Even if Death is right there, waiting for me, I have no worries  
for I have made my peace with myself and accepted that I'm human and I make mistakes.  
__Death holds no nightmares for me but I know I'm one of the lucky few._

He didn't look until Dean was in the guest room waiting for his two hours of sleep and Bobby was snoring softly on the bed they'd set up in one corner of his office. Sam sat in the kitchen on his laptop and researched. There were some of the usual demon signs: cows dying, electrical storms, and the weather was bouncing around, but it was the same as in the rest of the country.

There had been an increase in 911 calls for things that had turned out to be bogus. It might be a result of an increase in ghost sightings; it could just be everyone was jumpy which matched the increased homicide rates—jumpy people would be more likely to kill someone.

Sam closed his laptop with a snap.

It didn't matter. Something was up with that girl and Sam was going to find out what. Before it came back to bite them in the ass.


	4. Fidget and Twitch

**Warnings**: Language, angst and ghostiness

* * *

**Chapter 3: Fidget and Twitch**

Dean was downtown to drop off a part at one of the garages. They'd offered to come pick it up but he'd been feeling restless and sitting behind the wheel of his baby, blaring his music, had been more soothing than lying in the sun and pretending that there was an easy way out of the end of the world. He got chatting to the owner about cars, old and new, and music, old and new. When the guy tried to talk about the state of the world, old and new, Dean suddenly remembered a prior engagement and got the hell out. He didn't need a discussion to know the world was going to shit—he was living it.

Fuck, he was turning into a maudlin bitch, but really, at this point? Dean was willing to concede that Cas' plan to find God was the best one they had. Which meant they were fucking screwed... Fucking Apocalypse.

_...poor name, bad marketing—puts people off. When all it is is Ali/Foreman...on a slightly larger scale..._

And Zachariah could just kiss his ass...

_Today President Obama met with the Dalai Lama amid protests from the Chinese government.  
__You know, if I were the President of China, I'd give them back Tibet because,  
__when the Apocalypse finally happens, the collapse of Everest is going to pull that sucker into the sea.  
__Of course that'll raise the sea level so good-bye China. And California for that matter.  
__I won't miss either of them._

Since he was only a few blocks from where Sam worked and it was nearly lunch time, he decided to make his lie a reality. There was nothing waiting for him back at the yard but more nothing so why not? He'd grab a bite with his brother and tease him about working with hot chicks in short shorts... or not. Maybe he'd try talking to the guy. Surely, he thought, they could find _some_ common ground besides hunting the devil and trying to save the world? More He's My Brother—less Team Free Will.

When he walked in the door, it was all he could do not to turn around and walk back out in horror. They were playing some sappy thing with steel guitar and bongo drums, for God's sake. A scented something tainted the air with smells that Dean sure as crap hoped _weren't_ natural. There was a display of crystals and stones, which would give the wearer peace, health, protection, wealth for only twenty bucks a pop. The hunter sneered: it was standard superstitious, new age crap, and he couldn't believe his brother actually put up with this shit.

However, there were perks—the girl behind the desk was cute. She had dark hair, dark eyes and a nicely rounded everything; just the way he liked them. He smiled his best I'm-harmless-and-charming-and-I-really-like-you smile and tried to keep the shadows out of his eyes.

"Hi, I'm Dean. I'm looking for my brother. Sam? He's supposed to be working today."

"I'm Mitzy. I could've guessed that you and Sam were related." She leaned forward and the low-cut T-shirt did its job.

It was a nice view but, seriously, what kind of adult let herself be called Mitzy? Still, Dean knew the dance so he leaned on the counter in return. "Oh, why's that?"

"You're both so tall!" Then she giggled. For some reason the tinkling sound killed Dean's meagre interest in the girl. He nearly retreated right then but stopped himself after all he was here to pick up Sam, not a date.

"We get it from our Dad," he said mildly, "Do you think I can go say 'hi'?" He kept the smile on his face but knew it was merely polite now, not interested and he was wondering what had just happened? It's not that her giggle was sharp or hard; it had been a light, pleasant sound, feminine and young, a little innocent. Maybe too innocent for him? He came with too much baggage and she probably came with too little. It made a sad kind of sense.

He brought his attention back to the receptionist who was frowning dramatically. "Oh, I'm _sorry_! Members only beyond this point." She brightened. "I could see if he's available to come out though!"

She was so perky it made Dean blink. "That would be great, thanks."

She picked up the phone to page someone in the back so Dean took the opportunity to walk away from the desk and her. He looked at the magazines (all fashion and gossip) and the products for sale (all organic and bio-friendly). He looked at the prices and nearly choked: twenty-three dollars for a bottle of shampoo? He pursed his lips in a silent whistle. They were definitely in the wrong business. But then he'd known that for a long time.

He was looking at one of the covers where a familiar beauty flashed golden eyes and white, white teeth:

_...We can have a future together, have our own family. I love you, Dean. Please..._

Carmen—the life that never was.

"Dean, what's up?"

Thank God for Sam interrupting him. He threw down the magazine and turned to face his brother. "Nothing. I was just in town and thought we could grab a bite to eat. Now that you're a regular working stiff we hardly get to see each other." Lame. Lame. Lame.

Sam blinked, surprised. "Sure. There's a decent burger place a few minutes away."

Dean grimaced and shook his head, "Nah. I saw a deli just up the street. Looked like your kind of place."

Now Sam was beyond surprised. "You want to go to a deli." Dean shrugged. "A place with moderately healthy food," Sam had to confirm.

Dean shrugged again, "I just don't want to squeeze into your car and listen to that garbage you call music."

The response was so typically Dean that Sam felt relieved. "Mitzy, tell Lorna I'm taking an early lunch, okay?" Mitzy smiled and wriggled, and agreed to tell the boss. She gave Dean a small wave but he'd already turned away. "I wouldn't call her if I was you," Sam said in warning as they left the Center.

"Huh?" Dean squinted in the sunshine. He'd left his sunglasses in the Impala.

"Mitzy. If you got her phone number I'd throw it out," Sam smiled, teasing. "She likes to flirt just to make her boyfriend jealous. It's this...thing they do."

"I didn't get her number."

"You didn't?" Sam looked back through the window: Mitzy was bopping her head in time to the conversation she was having on the phone.

"Low hanging fruit," Dean said dismissively and changed the topic, "What did you find out about that Vera chick?"

Sam tried stalling even knowing that it was useless, "What do you mean?"

Dean barely glanced at him. "I know you went home and checked her out. Any demon sign?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary considering," the younger Winchester answered plainly now that he'd been caught. "Did you figure out where she knew you from?" he asked.

"Well, gee, Sam, considering she begged me not to torture her, I'd have to say we met in Hell." The sarcasm was thick.

"But you didn't recognize her, is what I meant."

Dean shook his head, "I doubt the body we saw was the one she had downstairs."

"Then we're back to demon possession." Sam pointed out.

Dean shrugged. He really should've remembered to bring his sunglasses with him; the light was hurting his eyes. "Did you find out her last name or anything? There can't be that many women called Vera in Sioux Falls."

This time Sam had to shake his head. "I checked all the college registries. There's no student named Vera in any of their databases. There were lots of Veronicas, a Verna, and several V's as an initial but no Vera's. And, as part of their Safe Campus policy, no pictures of any of them. She doesn't appear to have a driver's license either."

That little comment was made oh-so casually, as if Sam didn't want him to notice, but he did of course. "You hacked the DMV?"

Sam shrugged uncomfortably. "Their firewalls sucked."

He looked a little longer, a little harder, at his brother wanting to know if he could make Sam turn just a little more red.

"What?" Sam finally demanded, cheeks a lovely pink colour. Little Sammy the Geek—it was nice to know some things never changed. "They were doing maintenance or something."

Dean smiled, turning away. He looked around for the restaurant then frowned. He'd seen something…

He stopped and took a couple steps back to the alley they'd just passed. There, pushing an overfilled shopping cart and wearing a short bathrobe over a long raincoat. "Sam," he said when his brother stood beside him. "Is that guy what I think he is?"

"If you're thinking ghost…" Sam's voice trailed off as the spirit of a dead homeless man pushed his cart easily through a pile of heavy slush.

"Just like the waitress..."

"Server," Sam corrected automatically.

Dean shrugged a 'whatever' then jerked his head at the ghost, "Let's see where he goes."

They followed him up the alley and through an old parking lot. The guy walked through cars and signage but the basic layout must have been the same in his day because he walked around the cement dividers. A couple of times he stooped down and an empty beer can or pop bottle would suddenly appear in his hand.

"That's freaky," Sam said, but it was kind of logical, in a supernatural way.

"It's not a death echo," Dean stated as if needing confirmation. Sam could only nod. A death echo was the logical label for a non-angry spirit but they usually looped through the last few seconds of their life. This guy was still around after _minutes_. Plus they could hear him talking, complaining to an imaginary friend about how the city wasn't maintaining the sidewalks—a topic that in no way made it easier to figure out when he'd died. Finally, Dean went up and tried talking to him. Nothing, although there probably wouldn't have been a response even if the guy had been alive. Whoever this guy had been, he'd been schizophrenic at the very least.

They continued to trail behind him as he cussed up a storm. Sam was storing all the details away, planning to look into them later, see if he could find the man's name, look up his history and maybe figure out why he was suddenly walking around as an apparition.

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered and stopped. He stared at the old man, teeth clenched. Sam followed suit and resisted the urge to drop his jaw in shock.

The old guy had paused beside a cheap metal patio table behind a small restaurant that was obviously used by the staff on their breaks because there was a young woman in a uniform and an apron sitting there. The ghost was offering her a flower... and she was taking it.

There were so many things wrong with that. One; the guy was dead, the girl wasn't. He hadn't interacted with anything else in the current world, so why the girl? Two, she took the flower he offered and it didn't instantly disappear when he let it go. That definitely shouldn't have happened. Third and final piece of weirdness; it was the girl from the club, Vera. She watched the old guy walk away, twirling the translucent flower.

Dean and Sam didn't even have to look at each other to know what to do.

"Hello, Vera. It's nice to see you again," Sam said. Vera jumped in her seat, maybe to take off again, maybe not, but Sam already had a hand on her shoulder to keep her in place. "Don't scream," he said, "We're not going to hurt you." She gulped a few times but stayed put.

Dean sat down opposite her. The ghost flower slipped from her shaking hands and it disappeared before it hit the table. He watched it before turning his attention to her. "We need to talk," he said quietly.

It took a few moments, Vera's breathing was quick and uneven, but eventually she nodded. One final breath and she relaxed into the seat, calm enough that Sam felt comfortable letting go of her shoulder and sitting down beside her. He stayed close though, ready to grab if she tried to run.

"First things first," Dean stared at the young woman who, he realized, looked a lot older in the eyes than she should have, "We're not in the pit and I'm not here to drag you back to Hell."

"Yeah, I realized it was stupid when I got home," she responded, wrapping her hands around her bottle of water but not drinking, just holding it as if to draw comfort. "No way Alistair has the patience for such a long game. It was just a shock, that's all."

"For you and me both," he muttered.

"Who were you before this?" Sam asked, interrupting once again.

"Does it matter?" she asked back. "I wasn't a nice person. I'm not even going to try to deny that I belonged in Hell." That made the younger Winchester frown; he'd expected a protestation of innocence or a rant about the unfairness of fate not a calm statement of iniquity. She was too smooth which meant she was probably hiding something. His face hardened.

"If you were in Hell with me, and you're not a demon, how did you get here?" Dean asked, not caring that Sam had been going to ask a completely different question.

Vera flicked a cautious glance at the younger Winchester before turning her attention back to Dean. "I was on your table when you got pulled out."

Dean flinched at the plain statement. He tried to change it into an unconcerned head tilt and his muttered 'huh' tried to reflect blasé acceptance but Sam heard it catch; he didn't think Vera noticed.

"Are you sure you want me to tell this?" she asked hesitantly.

Maybe she _had_ seen that flinch, Sam realized.

"I think we need to hear it."

She nodded acceptance but didn't look at them. "There was this fight—"

"A fight," Sam said. It wasn't a question but she took it that way. Her fingers fluttered briefly around her bottle until she brought them back under control.

"A battle really. It went on a long time and the demons were losing." They waited for her to take a drink of water. "The guards gossiped about it; how something had invaded Hell—I was never clear on what—and it was headed our way, or rather toward Dean, I guess, since he's the one they grabbed. They, the guards, used to take bets on how long it would take it to reach our spot in the pit."

Sam looked at his brother, "Castiel?"

"Probably," Dean agreed. His foot jiggled a quickstep against the dirt.

"Alistair didn't want you thinking about it, maybe joining in, so they put souls in front of you as a distraction, and ordered you to, you know, get to work. I was one of them." Dean leaned back in his chair. Sam could tell that the older hunter was either going to punch something or throw up. Vera hesitated, looking at Dean in concern so he glared at her. She flinched. Just a small tightening around the eyes but, despite her apparent calm, the girl was scared.

"Keep going," Sam instructed. He tried to sound gentle but this was causing too much pain to his brother who really didn't need any more shit piled on to the weight he was already carrying. Neither of them did.

Vera finally shrugged, movements stiff. "Then this light, or something, came down and just surrounded you. It wasn't subtle or delicate; it was huge and-and powerful and you were standing right near me so, when it pulled you out, I guess I got yanked along."

Dean didn't say anything, he didn't look at anything, just jiggled his foot like a flamenco dancer. To cover up for Dean Sam asked Vera to describe it, in detail.

She shrugged again, still jerky but getting better. "Light, like spotlight-light, but more. It felt heavy... like it was made up of something solid? And when it pulled on Dean it was like a vacuum with extra-strength suction. And it was hot, really hot. I thought it was some kind of new torture because it went on and on and it hurt but, when it was over, I was floating over Toledo, of all places." She grimaced and took another sip of her water. "I tried talking to people but they couldn't see me, couldn't hear me."

"You were a spirit," Sam stated.

She nodded, "It took me a while to realize but I saw other people floating around doing things that are impossible for living beings, like moving through solid objects and disappearing. Them, I could talk to." She fluttered her fingers, "I saw Ghost; I figured I was Patrick Swayze."

"How'd you get the body?" Dean asked and he was calmer...or at least hiding his nerves better.

"Vera asked me if I wanted it," she answered. Both of the brothers looked at her as if she'd announced she'd been to the moon. She lifted her shoulders in helpless bewilderment, as if to say she didn't understand it either. "It was a hit and run during spring break back in her hometown. Vera was standing over her body so I went over to talk to her. I mean, it got pretty boring just floating around, and most of the spirits I met had been dead so long they'd forgotten how to have a conversation.

"You were bored?" Sam clarified.

Vera nodded and laughed but not as if anything was funny. "Craving a half-way decent conversation actually. We talked. She was unhappy with her life and rather glad it was over. I tried to change her mind but she was pretty determined. When that guy—"

"Guy?" Sam interrupted.

She described him. "Pale guy, kinda sick looking, in a cheap suit."

"Reaper," Dean said and Sam nodded at the explanation. He gestured for Vera to continue with her story.

Her eyebrow was raised but she didn't say anything. "When the..._reaper _came to collect her she offered me her body and I said yes. I mean, why not?"

"Why didn't the reaper collect you too?" Sam asked.

She shrugged. He could see her thinking about it, remembering. It didn't seem to be a happy memory because she sighed and shrugged again. "I'm not sure he even saw me. He was pretty focussed on Vera. She's the only one he even talked to."

"Why would you do that?" Dean asked. "I mean, why would you want to come back here, to this life?"

She looked at him in disbelief, "I figured it had to be better than drifting for eternity, slowly dissolving into nothingness. Besides," she waved a hand over herself, "isn't this what people dream of; getting to re-do their youth with all their adult knowledge?"

"No," Sam shook his head, "There has to be a catch."

"I thought so too at first but honestly, as far as I could tell, Vera's biggest problem was the boyfriend and I ditched him right off. Other than that, her complaints were pretty standard for someone her age: her parents were too controlling, her siblings were jerks; and life sucked because it wasn't what she wanted it to be already."

Sam snorted, "Yeah, that doesn't sound condescending at all."

Vera looked at him, barely containing the eye-roll Sam could feel. "I was forty-two when I died," she said, "and facing criminal prosecution in a DUI manslaughter charge. It gives me a different perspective on things."

Reluctantly, Sam had to concede she had a point. His idea of what sucked had changed drastically since he was twenty. Sometimes, it was hard to remember that he was the same person.

"I figure, I'll live Vera's life the way I should've lived mine so that, when I die this time, I'll end up someplace nicer." Her smile this time was soft and wistful, "Sounds like a good plan, doesn't it?"

Sam glanced at Dean who shrugged acceptance of the story but Sam couldn't let it go. Nothing in life was ever that easy. There had to be a catch. "You seem like a nice person but we need to be sure."

"What do you mean?"

"If you're a demon, or some other type of satanic creature, we can't just ignore that," Sam answered. "There's too much at stake."

"I'm not a demon," she protested.

"We need to sure," he repeated at the same time his brother said "Christus."

Nothing happened.

"The name of God?" Vera frowned, "Does that actually work?"

"Yeah, usually," Sam replied with a small smile, "Holy water too." He held up a small silver flask. She looked from it to him, eyebrows raised in surprise. He shook it and moved it closer to her. "It's just water."

She took the flask and, keeping it an inch or so from her mouth, poured some of the blessed water down her throat. Nothing happened and Sam didn't know whether to be relieved or even more pissed off because what the hell was she?

"Huh, it just tastes kind of stale," she said frowning. She handed the flask back to Sam. "Like I said, I'm not a demon. I was never asked."

The brothers looked at her. "Asked?"

She jumped a little, startled at the stereophonic question, "Yeah. You have to be asked or recruited, I guess. You don't remember?" She frowned at Dean who just looked even more confused. Her face cleared, "You never knew. Wow... I knew they'd kept you isolated but _jeez_. Okay basic primer on Hell's social structure. Lowest are damned souls, condemned because of the stuff they did in life," she explained. She took another drink, obviously thinking. "Crap," Vera muttered, "this could take a long time to explain."

Dean's green eyes were diamond hard when they looked at her, "I've got the time."

His words were turned into a lie by the ringing of his cell phone. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the number before answering, one finger held up to stop them from continuing or maybe going anywhere. He responded to the caller in short sentences; 'yeahs' or 'uh-huhs' mostly. Sam kept his eyes on Vera, feeling a vague fear that she'd vanish if he didn't watch her, and his ears on Dean, waiting for a signal or something. He kept his foot flat against the ground, didn't let it bounce like it wanted to.

Dean flipped his phone shut. "I gotta go." The older man frowned at the girl. "I want to finish this discussion though."

She looked back at him, meeting his hard stare easily but warily. "I'm off work at six."

Dean nodded, "I can be here."

"Me too," Sam added. "And since we're making this a date, maybe we can get a name and a phone number?" He said it as a question but it wasn't really. He got up and stood towering over her, his stance deliberately menacing. She looked at him the same way she'd looked at Dean, but Sam refused to back down. He could almost admire her for being so calm when faced with his size and his temper, but he'd been taken in by an act before. If she was messing with them, messing with _Dean_, he'd kill her and not think twice.

Something of what he felt must have shown because Dean had come to stand close, giving him silent support. She gave them her cell phone number. They didn't give her theirs.

They walked away, leaving her at the table to finish her break. "So what do you think?" Sam asked as soon as they were out of hearing range, "She on the up and up?"

Dean shrugged, still frowning like he wanted to punch something. "Maybe a little too relaxed at seeing her former torturer in the flesh."

"Dean—" Sam's protest was automatic and easily ignored.

"I don't know what her reaction should've been, Sam," the older Winchester barked. "It's not like there's a book out there I can read on 'the proper reaction to have when meeting someone who tortured you in Hell'."

"I got the feeling there's a lot of stuff she left out," Sam responded mildly making his brother laugh a little at the understatement.

As some of the tension drained from him, Dean squinted against the sunlight, trying to organize all the things that had disturbed him about that little conversation. From her being one of his victims; to the dead girl, the real Vera, offering her body to another dead person; to her being here in what was, essentially, their home base. But what had bothered him the most? He took a moment to say it although it was blaring inside his mind like a bad audio track.

_...sooner or later, Hell will burn away your humanity. Every Hell bound soul—every one—turns into something else..._

"That stuff she said about being 'asked' to become a demon... Is it... They ask then you say yes, and that's it, you're a demon?"

Dean said it quietly, more calmly than Sam would've thought possible given the subject matter. _He_ couldn't be calm, though. His voice was fierce, determined. "No, Dean… You didn't come back a demon. Bobby tested you. _I_ tested you."

"I said yes to Alistair. Apparently that's all it takes," Dean's voice was bitter with self-loathing.

"She was interrupted, didn't get to finish," he argued, "There's more to the story and you know it. We'll find out the rest tonight." Fucking _Christ_ there were tears building in the corner of Dean's eyes. Fucking no, no, _no._ Just no. "What was that call about?" he asked, desperate to redirect his brother's thoughts.

Dean coughed back his emotions and shrugged, trying to be casual and in control. "Call to an accident site. Apparently the cop in charge asked for me because I didn't puke at the severed body parts at the last one." He snorted, this time with real humour. "Not even hunting and still up to my eyeballs in blood and gore."

Sam couldn't help his ghoulish chuckle of agreement. Typical Winchester luck, he thought.

Dean was carefully looking away from his brother, but Sam couldn't do the same. He watched his brother rebuild himself again even though it obviously made the older man uncomfortable. He finally forced his gaze onto... anything else, the buildings, the street, an that's why he saw the guy. He frowned and squinted but the picture didn't change. "Um, Dean? You see that guy stepping into the road, trying to catch a cab? Is he what I think he is?"

Dean followed Sam's gaze and, sure enough, there was another ghost. This one was dressed in a business suit and carrying a briefcase. He waved at the nearly empty street while standing in the trunk of a car and looking at his watch impatiently.

"Huh," Sam commented intelligently, but really, what was there to say? Then he had a thought. He looked back down the alley and saw Vera still sitting at the table. "You think it's connected?"

Dean turned to stare at her as well. "This is so effed up," the older Winchester murmured

_The US took Olympic silver and the bronze in the Men's Alpine skiing event today.  
__And, if the weather doesn't change soon, street hockey might become a non-optional sport for all of us.  
__Hopefully, it freezes the alien invasion in their spaceships. Rescued by crappy weather. I like it.  
__Here's the Red Hot Chili Peppers with their aptly titled song._


	5. Two Steps Back

**Warnings**: Don't try to write original stuff on Halloween. You just get started with a great idea, the doorbell rings and POOF! it's gone. =[

* * *

**Chapter 4: Two Steps Back**

At just before six o'clock, Dean and Sam were standing outside the front of the sandwich shop—with the cleverly cute name of 'On a Roll'—where Vera worked. It had plants and cheap rainbow stickers in the window. A decal on the door advertised that it used only organic, fair-trade coffee and locally-grown product. It smelled heavenly, like fresh bread and hot soup, so Dean didn't even sneer.

Sam inhaled and enjoyed the lack of stale grease floating in the air. The place was warm and clean, decorated simply and cheaply, more like a cafeteria than a restaurant. There was a brightly coloured chalkboard menu hanging above the counter sorted into bread types, meats, cheeses, toppings and dressings. It looked like customers picked what they wanted and then the staff assembled it into a sandwich. Sam was impressed. Dean looked at the board and wondered why they couldn't have offered normal sandwiches like BLT's and Meat Lover's. He really didn't need more than one type of bread or cheese and wouldn't want to pronounce some of them anyway.

"I think we should get a sandwich," Sam said and Dean could only agree. The accident he'd been pulled away to hadn't been that bad gore wise, but it had been a bitch to get the van hooked up right so he could drag it out of the ditch. He'd already grabbed a taco but he could do with a sandwich or two.

They walked up to the tiny Asian girl taking orders at the counter, Sam in the lead. She looked up at him—and up—and gave a silent 'O' of appreciation. She shifted her stance into something with a little more chest and asked, "What'll you have?"

Sam knew there was more being offered than the stuff on the board and he couldn't help but be glad that he didn't blush as easily as he had even three years ago because this girl was about as subtle as a kick to the ribs. But she was cute and it had been a while so what would be the harm in, maybe, setting up a date for later? Sam looked down a little farther to read the name tag still pinned to her chest—it was Trin—and if she was standing so close that Sam had no choice but to see that she was wearing a black bra with pink polka dots, he could at least admit the view was very nice.

He glanced sideways at his brother expecting a look of gentle mockery but Dean wasn't even looking at Trin. His eyes were searching the small restaurant and there was an anxious frown on his brow. Sam sighed internally; he probably wouldn't be fixing up anything with anyone, at least not tonight. Still...there could be other nights.

Sam smiled his best 'I'm harmless' smile, "Actually, Trin, we're supposed to be meeting Vera?"

She responded with a pout worthy of a Hollywood star then peeked up at him from under over-mascara-ed eyelashes. "I think Vera left a bit ago." She leaned a little bit closer, "But, ya know, since she didn't wait for you I'll gladly keep you occupied. I get off work in, like, thirty minutes."

That could work, Sam thought; time enough to find Vera, talk, then get back here. He leaned forward to continue making arrangements.

"When did she leave?" Dean asked, breaking into the moment.

"I dunno, fifteen minutes ago, I guess. Some guy showed up making a fuss so Carl—the boss?—told her to take it outside because they were saturating the place with negative energy." Trin swayed her hips lightly in her too-tight-to-be-human jeans. She reached out a finger and almost placed it on Sam's exposed collarbone... almost, because Dean pulled her hand down and away.

"Where'd they go?" His tone was harsh warning.

She huffed out a sigh, "Out into the parking lot, I suppose. It's not like I _checked_."

"Why am I not surprised," Dean muttered. "Thanks for your help. Sam?" He pulled Sam with him and Sam, obeying years of training, followed instinctively.

It wasn't until the cool evening air hit him that Sam realized what he'd done. "Dude," he protested. "What was that for?" Dean finally looked at him, bewildered.

"The girl?" A tip of Sam's head pointed to where they could see Vera's co-worker through the diner's windows.

Dean frowned, "Yeah right. Like you were really interested."

"I was thinking about it," Sam said quietly. "Of, you know, maybe talking to her a bit longer and deciding if I was interested."

Dean looked unimpressed. "Then come back tomorrow and flirt."

It was Sam's turn to frown. A few months ago Dean would have competed against Sam for the attention of a cute girl and Trin, despite the thick make-up, _had_ been cute. It was like in Ames, when he didn't want to go out trolling the pre-Valentine's Day bars for women. Dean wasn't Dean and Sam didn't like it.

He was about to say something more when he heard a scuffle and a low grunt followed by a loud curse. Humans, he identified automatically, fighting. Sam's gun was out and cocked before his next breath. Dean had his out too, searching the dimly lit area for danger.

Two figures, struggling in the space between a truck and a shiny new Ford Mustang; one was bent over, hands on her head trying to loosen the grip of the other as it pulled her, by the hair, toward the open driver-side door.

Vera and the Ex.

"Freeze, asshole!" Sam called, sounding so much like a cop that Dean nearly smiled, except that the ex—Lance, Vance, asshole, something like that—had pulled the girl in front of him as a shield.

Dean put his gun away even while he moved forward in a cautious rush. "Let her go," the older Winchester said, "Let her go, man. It ain't worth it." He had both his hands up, keeping the asshole's attention on him while Sam circled around trying to find a safe angle in case he really had to shoot.

"I just want to talk to her," said the Ex, "She'll understand if she just lets me talk to her."

"This isn't the way, man. She's not going to listen to what you're saying when you're hurting her." Dean moved closer, eyes watchful; it didn't look like the guy had a weapon but it didn't hurt to be careful.

"She's a selfish bitch," the man said with a pathetic laugh, "but I love her."

"That may be, but this isn't the way to show it," Dean repeated. Odd how he was the one trying to talk the guy down, trying to be empathic; that was always Sammy's job. Furrowed brow, puppy-dog eyes, soft voice... he'd been good at it once upon the time. Now, Dean knew that Sam faked it more than half the time which seemed like a sad little commentary on how far they'd slid.

Philosophic angsting aside, Sam had the gun and Dean had his voice and the person he wanted—needed—to talk to was trapped in between with a crazy guy's arm around her neck two steps away from snapping it. Winchester luck at its finest.

Har, fucking har.

"If you kill her, then she can't listen to you explain. She'll be dead and you'll be alone. Is that what you want?" The guy hesitated, an odd look on his face and Dean realized that the idiot hadn't thought this through. Probably hadn't thought farther than wanting her now. "Tell you what," Dean suggested softly, "You let her go, give her a chance to think about what she really wants, then try to talk to her again later."

"She said she doesn't want to talk to me. She's the love of my life, and she doesn't want to even talk to me"

Shit, the guy was _whining_. Dean hated whiners; the only people he could tolerate that sound from were the ones who weren't old enough to reach his kneecaps yet. He clenched his jaw, fought down his instinctive sneer, and managed to calmly say, "I'm sure, once she's had a chance to think about it, she'll let you talk to her, but not here, not like this. Nobody listens when they're scared."

"Is he right, Vera?" The asshole used his grip on her hair to pull her head to the side so he could talk directly into her ear. "Will you let me talk to you later?" She nodded but Dean could see that the guy holding her didn't care. "He already knows you that well?" A little laugh, "Didn't take you long to move on from me, babe."

_Ohshitohshit_, Dean thought, this isn't going in a good direction.

"He doesn't know me," she managed, voice harsh from the constriction, "but I'd be an idiot not to agree."

"You keep saying you're not an idiot. I'm not sure I believe that." He shook her head a little in emphasis, using his grip on her hair. Dean saw her grimacing in pain. "But you were never a liar."

"Lying's a sin," she replied tightly, "and I don't want to end up in Hell."

Dean was sure the Ex was the only one who didn't hear the silent 'again'. Didn't matter, her voice rang with absolute conviction.

The guy—Lance or Vance—was silent as he contemplated this. He looked up at Dean, still holding up his empty hands, and rubbed his cheek against hers like a cat marking territory. Then he looked over at Sam who was holding his huge handgun in a rock-steady grip. Dean saw the moment the Ex realized it was let go of her or die. His face scrunched up in what he probably thought was a ferocious scowl but was closer to spoiled petulance. "Fine," he spat out. "I'll believe you."

He let her go, just dropped her to the ground. His eyes stayed on the Winchesters because they were the threat. "I'm leaving now, Vera, but I just want you to know, I'll hold you to your promise."

He straightened, still looking at Dean and Dean could hear the guy thinking he was Making A Grand Gesture—which usually translated into stupid looking idiocy. Sure enough, Vance spun around dramatically and swung into the Mustang. He shut the door, started it up and peeled out within seconds.

If Vera hadn't rolled under the neighbouring truck as fast as she had, Vance would've run over 'the love of his life'.

Dean was already at the truck, helping Vera crawl out but he saw Sam tucking his gun away and checking the area for witnesses. "You okay?" he asked her. Stupid question and Vera shot him the look he deserved.

He helped her up so she could sit against the tire and then he checked her out for injuries as best he could in the parking lot's dim light. "Did he hit you?"

She nodded even as she held her stomach and rolled her shoulder a little before stopping with a wince. "One cracked rib, bruises, the hair pulling thing; my hearing's gone weird but that could just be reaction setting in." She looked up at Sam with a cocky half-grin, "See what I mean by him being Vera's biggest problem?"

Dean snorted. "Now he seems to be yours," he pointed out and Vera sighed in sad acknowledgement.

Sam was standing over them now, keeping guard. "Are you going to talk to him?"

She nodded, "With lawyers present, but yeah. I said I would." She pushed herself shakily to her feet, using the truck as support. Dean rose with her, keeping a steadying hand under her arm. She looked at them. "I'm going to call the cops. If you two want to go I'll tell them that some guys chased him away."

Sam looked at Dean. "Guns," he said.

"Right," the older Winchester agreed. He took his out and handed it to his brother. "Put them back and head on home. I'm going to follow Vera to the police station."

"You sure?" There was a library full of history in those two words. Dean and Sam Winchester were officially dead. If it ever got out that they weren't then there were some suspicious deaths and an escape or two that would have law enforcement drooling at the thought of capturing them. It was a complication they really didn't need.

But Dean nodded easily, "The covers you and Bobby made are solid. Plus the cops won't be looking so they won't see. Sioux Falls isn't big enough for them to be suspicious of _every_thing, not yet."

Sam accepted the assessment, "Okay, but I'll put these in the car and be right back. If they talk to Trin she'll remember me and then they might wonder why I disappeared."

Dean shrugged but they both knew he was agreeing with Sam. Dean had honestly forgotten all about the girl behind the counter but his brother was right. The way she'd been drooling over Sam, there's no way she would forget him. Although she might not remember anyone had come in _with_ Sam… It was funny-strange how little it mattered that Dean had come in second to his brother. It used to bother him. It used bother him a lot when people didn't realize he was around when he wanted them to know: cute little Sammy Winchester...

_...he's clearly John's favourite. Even when they fight, it's more concern than he's ever shown you..._

Fucking pathetic, that's what he was…

It wasn't Vera's little mewl of pain as she leaned against the truck brought Dean out of his unhappy musing; it was the laughter that followed moments later. "What?"

"Do you know people actually pay to be flayed; have their skin cut off in designs like a tattoo?" she asked seemingly out of nowhere but Dean understood. Being skinned and then salted had been an almost everyday occurrence in Hell.

"It wasn't even close to being the worst pain I experienced in Hell and yet, here I am, whimpering over a couple cracked ribs. It's like comparing a stubbed toe to a compound fracture." She closed her eyes. "I feel kind of pansy assed."

He had to snort because he knew exactly what she meant. He'd found himself ignoring injuries because they weren't major enough: no blood gushing, no passing out or seeing things. If it didn't interfere with hunting it wasn't worth noticing. Like his finger. He couldn't remember where or when he'd broken it, only that it was sometime after he'd come out of Hell. He only realized what he'd done when he watched it not bend properly. He'd shown Sam and commented that, if it had been one finger over, he would've been permanently and legitimately rude to everyone.

Sam hadn't thought it was funny.

Actually, neither one of them thought much was funny anymore. Weight of the world, blah blah blah, whatever. How could they ever get back to what they were before everything?

"Isn't pain supposed to prove you're alive or some shit like that?" He'd closed his eyes. When had he done that? He only realized he'd closed them after opening them and staring up at the moon.

She smiled at him over her cell phone, "I prefer the whole 'thinking as proof' thing. It's not generally as excruciating." It was Dean's turn to laugh even though it wasn't really funny.

Thoughts hurt. Thoughts could cut deeper than Alistair's blades ever had.

_...You, of all people, should know that's what's dead should stay dead..._

Sometimes he knew—deeply, absolutely—that if he could go back to Cold Oak knowing everything, that he wouldn't make the same choices. That he'd watch his little brother lay there, on that stained old mattress, and let him stay dead. It made him break out in a sweat and he'd want to hurl, the guilt would be so bad, but he'd do it. No crossroads deal, no Hell, no Lilith, Ruby or Castiel. No seals, no angels, no Lucifer. No _Sam_.

No wonder he couldn't look himself in the eye…

* * *

When the police arrived they took down the details of the incident with an efficient detachment that made Dean nearly sigh in relief.

Phil (just call me Tom) and Jerry had been almost finished their shift when the call had come in and they no interest in the overtime needed to check on a couple guys who stumbled into a bad situation. Jerry _did_ go into the deli to talk with Trin so Dean was glad he'd followed Sam's lead and told the truth... or at least most of the truth.

They'd decided that being old friends wouldn't work: Dean and Sam Singer weren't from Rapid City—Vera Holmes' hometown—or anywhere near there and any cursory check would say as much. No, they were just three people who'd seen a ghost at a club and wanted to swap stories the day after. They all got sideways looks until Phil (call me Tom) decided they were using it as an excuse to get into Vera pants. Then the looks turned moderately approving, which was creepy considering the visible age difference but useful in explaining why Dean and Sam followed them to the hospital.

Yeah, Dean thought to himself with a sad little laugh, Vera Holmes is a magnet for weirdo stalker-type dudes with an agenda. And she thought this would be better than being a ghost.

_Today City Hall issued a statement saying that we've already spent half of 2010's snow removal budget  
__Not to worry. The continuing wind's going to half our trash removal costs by blowing it all out to the country.  
__Welcome to spring in the Falls._

Dean sat in the waiting room trying to find a comfortable position on the industrial quality chair. Sam had given up ages ago and gone home. He had one of his meditation classes before work that was starting at some godforsaken hour. Dean hadn't bothered doing much more than chanting 'ohm' at him.

He wanted a drink.

Failing that he wanted to collect Vera and get the fuck out of here.

Not even the pretty nurse behind the counter provided a distraction. One, the shiny wedding band still had the price tag on it. Two, she was much too busy to have time to flirt. There had been people with blood gushing that'd had to wait. Heads always bled like a mother, Dean knew, didn't mean there was much actual damage. There'd been one older guy surrounded by family who'd been clutching his chest and turning blue. He'd been whisked in faster than Superman could run. Currently, Dean was sharing the waiting room with the family of a sick kid who'd already puked once; one teen who may have broken his arm at a party; and one very pregnant wife who'd shouted 'I _am_ breathing!' at her partner and woken up the baby. He ignored them all.

There were also all the non-angry spirits wandering around, moving through the walls that hadn't been there when they'd been alive, but Dean very carefully ignored them too. Instead he watched TV and tried not to fidget.

When he'd first sat down the TV in the corner had been tuned to a news station filled with disasters and death—as if the people in this place needed more nightmare materia—but someone had switched it to Discovery a while ago. Now they were being entertained by watching the show's host wade through pig shit that would, eventually, be turned into organic self-fertilizing planters. It was actually kind of cool.

If he hadn't been a hunter, and freaking _cursed_, Dean decided he wouldn't have minded being the host for Dirty Jobs. Dean nearly smiled as he wondered how Mike Rowe would respond to an invitation to do _their_ job...

'They told me Swamp golems smell… bad, but considering the jobs I've done, I didn't think it would be anything I hadn't smelled before.' he could hear Mike say, 'but now that we've found one I take it back. You could take Fresh Kills landfill outside of New York, the largest landfill site in the world, add some sewage from a septic tank or two, and multiply the result by a thousand and it still wouldn't be close. And Dean says that it's just going to get worse once the thing starts burning.'

In his mind, Dean started to half-heartedly design a flame thrower using stuff from the Impala or that they could grab at a Wal-Mart or Ace Hardware before deciding that napalm would actually be better because it would cling to the golem and burn it even as it started to fall apart. He was sure he could find the formula on the internet or he could probably improvise…

"Dean?" "Singer!" Someone kicked his foot and Dean broke out of his almost-dream.

Vera was there, a necklace of bruises on her throat. Beside her stood Tom (who was actually Phil) and Jerry, which were better nicknames than Jan and Dirk, Dean thought before pulling his brain out of the fuzz. "Finished?" he asked, wiping the sleep out of his eyes.

"She just needs to come in to the station tomorrow and finish up the paperwork," Jerry said, "Then she can make a TRO application anytime." Vera rolled her eyes slightly and told Dean without words that the officer had been doing a lot of the talking for her.

Dean stood up, feeling the bones in his spine slide into place, feeling old… "I'll just see her home then," he said.

"Just make sure the boyfriend isn't hanging around, following her," Tom said. He was looking at his watch. Dean didn't call him on the fact that the cops should be driving the victim home, making sure her place was asshole free. He still needed to talk to her after all, plus he knew what it was like to be beyond ready to call it a day. At least the deputies walked them out to the Impala, eyes searching, assessing the location just like Dean was doing. It was clear. They climbed into the car and Tom gave the roof a couple taps before he let Dean drive away.

Vera didn't say anything, just sat with her head leaning against the window, looking out at the night. The music was on a mixed radio station, the volume down from the ride over. Dean let it play, covering the space between them that was filled with memories of fire and blades and pain. Tortured and torturer.

Three Days Grace came on the radio and sang about preferring pain to feeling nothing at all. Dean stared at the controls as if it was reading his mind or something.

"Those guys just don't get it, they really don't. To them, pain's a game, an alternative to real life that they escape _to_. Would they still think it was better if they couldn't escape from it?" Vera sounded tired and defeated and it caught Dean's attention because she'd never sounded like that before.

"Ribs hurting?"

It was a stupid question and Dean nearly winced even as he asked it but he didn't know how to do this; how to talk about Hell without it twisting him up inside. He'd told Sam, managed to force out the words, but it hadn't made him feel better, hadn't 'lightened the load' and he'd never done it again. Cas knew, because he'd been there pulling him out, seeing everything he'd become. Sometimes it was hard to look at them and know that they knew. Most of the time he ignored it, pretended it didn't happen. He worked better that way... most of the time.

_...that's all part of your MO, isn't it? Masks all that nasty pain, masks the truth..._

Thankfully, she ignored the stupid question. "I've read all about PTSD and what it means to have survived torture and how it screws you up. I've managed to convince my therapist not to commit me because I talk about it." She finally looked over at him, "Vera was never tortured, you see. She was never raped or skinned or cut open. Vera Holmes had the perfect upper middle-class life."

"You go to a psychiatrist?" Dean asked. Out of all the questions in his head, he figured that one probably had the fewest landmines.

"Yeah. It doesn't help much but at least I can recognize my triggers." She snorted again, "Nothing like flipping out over an accidental knife cut in front of three BFFs who've known you, like, for_everrr_ to convince you that you need help covering up the fact that you're not the same person."

Dean could picture it clearly, the stunned horror, the over-anxious concern, and there'd be no way to explain it because Hell wasn't real to most people. It was just a word.

"I haven't told her this. I have a hard time admitting it to myself but I think you'll understand." Vera's voice was quiet. She wasn't looking at him. "Part of me misses it."

He had no response to that. None.

Thoughts like that weren't allowed to be part of his reality.

She wasn't finished, though. "It was so easy there. I didn't have to think about the consequences of what I did, the decisions I made. I couldn't even kill myself so even that choice was taken away. All I had to do was endure and I could do that. I _did_ do that."

Dean grunted in surprised recognition. He'd forgotten trying to kill himself. It had just been that one time when he'd realized he was close to breaking. He'd managed to grab a knife from one of the guards. He'd cut his wrists and bled and bled and bled. Alistair had laughed and let him bleed for what seemed like days but probably hadn't been. He'd sat, legs crossed, just observing as Dean got weaker and weaker until he'd felt almost transparent. Then, with a snap of his fingers, Alistair had made Dean whole and healed and Dean had wept because the pain was going to start again and he knew—_he knew_—he wasn't going to make it this time.

_...but daddy's little girl, he broke in thirty..._

He couldn't stop the sound that escaped from him, a weak, whimpering dribble that oozed out of him. He avoided looking at Vera. He didn't want to know if he had sounded as pathetic as he thought he had. He concentrated on his driving; turn light on, traffic clear, accelerate smoothly into the near lane, focus on the now.

"It was easier for me, I suppose. They didn't want anything from me. There was no goal that could be achieved by torturing me. It made it different," she said proving to Dean that she was a fucking mind-reader or something. He clenched his jaw and thought seriously about blasting out some Metallica just to shut her up. Then she laughed but sadly, "Actually, having said that, maybe you won't understand."

"Don't know if you don't say it."

"True."

Instead of speaking, she fell quiet as the song changed to something else. She shifted in her seat, stretched her legs and tucked them back in before wrapping her arms around herself. Dean recognized the signs from too many years of watching his brother: Vera was working herself up to talk about something she wasn't sure anyone wanted to hear. He didn't help her because he wasn't sure _he_ wanted to hear it.

With a sigh she finally gave it up. "Did you ever hear the phrase 'making a virtue of necessity'?"

He turned to look at her in surprise because that totally wasn't what he expected her to say. "I don't think so, no."

She kept her face turned toward the window as she spoke. "To give in to the inevitable with grace; to find something, _anything_, in a generally shitty situation that you can latch on to and say; if I can make _this_ part okay, I can survive the rest."

Dean almost laughed because that just about described his life perfectly. "I understand the concept."

"I did that. In Hell. I traded sex for favours and protection. Sex with pain got me better favours, more protection so I learned to like pain, to get aroused by it." Vera sighed, not loud and dramatic, but sad and quiet. "I spent a lot of time being horny."

A virtue out of necessity indeed, Dean realized.

Then he put it together, "The hospital...getting treated at the hospital."

"Yup," She shifted in her seat and Dean knew it was out of embarrassment and not discomfort. "The doctor and nurses were trying to be so gentle; they checked my injuries, wrapped them up. They thought my breathing was speeding up because it hurt," she paused, rethought "Well... I suppose they were right, kind of. All I could think was that I really wanted one of them to toss me onto the table and fuck me senseless."

Dean controlled his own reaction to her blunt statement. It was too close to his memories; memories he didn't want to be thinking about... ever. He looked over to see if she saw his guilty jump but she still had her cheek resting against the passenger side window. Ignoring the world and seeing only the pictures in her head.

"You liked being raped?" Dean had to ask, because, just no. How could somebody like that?

"Not raped, I mean, not really," she hesitated, "Maybe coerced… or dominated, I suppose, might be the term. Stressed muscles and joints and that kind of stuff, even…even knives, a little."

Her answer led to a new question, one on slightly less quicksandy ground. "So, if you like pain and being dominated, why not stay with the asshole?"

She snorted. "'Cause I'm not stupid. He'd've really hurt me." She rolled her head against the window so she could look at him. "Lance is like that guard of Alistair's. Vogel I think was his name. He didn't understand 'stop' in any language."

The image of a heavy-set older man, military posture, lifted chin, perpetual sneer, systematically breaking every bone and joint in the body of a 14-year old boy filled Dean's head and he remembered. The boy had been devoutly Catholic and he'd tried to bleed the homosexuality out of his body. He'd failed to cure his gayness but he'd managed to commit suicide so, according to his beliefs, he'd been doubly damned. According to Dean he didn't deserve an eternity in Hell and Vogel was the kid's only ticket out. The former Nazi interrogator hadn't stopped with broken bones or ripped tendons, but Dean had known he wouldn't; he never did. Vogel had completely deconstructed the boy until his soul had gone out in a puff of grey ash. Completely and irrevocably dead.

Alistair had had a fit when he found out but he hadn't yelled at Vogel. He'd yelled at Dean because Dean had assigned the soul to the former Nazi. He'd done it deliberately, knowing that Vogel would do exactly what he'd done. No more torture, no more pain for the boy. No more chance for redemption or rebirth, of course. Dean had taken that away from him too.

_...You're supposed to help people, Dean. Why didn't you help me..._

He couldn't even remember the boy's name now.

"I am so totally screwed in my mind and I don't know if I'll ever be any better than this," she continued completely oblivious to what she'd done to Dean. Talking about Hell so casually, like it was a bad Mexican vacation they'd shared instead of life-altering torture.

She gave a sharp laugh, "I can't believe I'm telling you this. I haven't even told my therapist." She sounded so hopeless, so unlike her usual pragmatic optimism that Dean wanted to reach out and pat her leg in comfort. Except he didn't do comfort anymore because it was a lie, it was always a fucking lie.

On the other hand, he couldn't offer comfort, but he could do an odd kind of camaraderie. "I get it. More from the other side though," he said, staring determinedly out the front window, "Not the actual cutting, or anything, but those moments before, when I had all the power." He's quiet, comparing then and now... Fucking angels and their crap apocalypse. "I miss being in control like that."

"It's common," Vera said.

Dean snorted, "Yeah, like that makes it all better." They finally looked at each other and saw the same bone-deep understanding. They were out of Hell but it's never going to be out of them. The silence stretched.

"I've thought of finding a club," she said, looking away, "I mean, Sioux Falls _is_ a college town, right? College students experiment."

"Why haven't you?" Dean also looked carefully out the windshield.

"Because they'd be amateurs, probably. After all, Sioux Falls _is_ a college town," she repeated dryly. They glanced at each other and almost chuckled.

"You seriously thought of finding someone to... do that to you?" Dean asked as he pulled to the curb, putting the car in park.

It had never occurred to him that there'd be clubs for this stuff but then he remembered that magic show gig they'd done last year and that guy, Big Cheese or something. Even as he wondered, he knew he'd never go looking for one. He and Sam didn't stay in any one town long enough for him to hook into the scene and then he'd have to lie like crazy to Sam and there'd been so many lies between them.

"Yeah, I seriously did but... if they really don't know what they're doing..." she sighed unhappily, "I know all too well what can happen if the knife slips. I like Vera's life; I don't want to muck it up."

They could hear the engine ticking as it cooled. There was thunder in the distance and party music coming from somewhere closer.

"I know how to handle a knife." It was said so quietly that it could've been a thought.


	6. Turning in Circles

**Warnings**: Explicit content, including knife work and blood play. It you aren't into that stuff, PM me and I'll send you an abridged version.

* * *

**Chapter 5: Turning in Circles**

_It's time for the Student Union's annual Clean the Falls drive coming up March 5th to 7th.  
__You can volunteer individually or as a team, and you can request an area but you should do it soon.  
__There are contests and prizes for the participants, including a new iPod.  
__More information available through the Student Union website here at the college.  
__This is V.A.S.T. with Pretty When You Cry because the Board of Directors aren't awake to complain about it._

"_I know how to handle a knife."_

Dean's heart was pounding and his throat was tight as the words echoed in the small space. He couldn't believe he'd said that, that he'd offered... but he wanted it. He wanted to do it once more, cut into someone, feel the slick smoothness of skin parting underneath his blade, and see the rich red blood draw lines on pale skin. He could hardly breathe he wanted it so much. He also wanted to take it back, to pretend he hadn't said it. He was a fucking sick bastard, that's what he was. He got on Sam's case for turning into a monster but what the hell was he? He wanted to want to hurt someone—deliberately. At least Sam had only ever had good intentions.

Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell was he thinking? He opened his mouth to retract the offer, joke it off.

"I know you do," Vera's voice was just as soft as his had been. When he turned to face her she was looking at him, assessing, not running out of the car in terror. She swallowed. Her eyes were huge. "And I trust you."

Part of him wanted to shake her and call her an idiot. Another part of him called him the idiot and told him to take her up on her offer before she came to her senses.

Maybe he wouldn't enjoy it like he had in Hell. Maybe he'd been doing that thing she'd said; making a virtue out of necessity.

Maybe he was a lying asshole because he'd certainly enjoyed torturing Alistair.

On the other hand, his enjoyment of having Alistair at his mercy for once hadn't had anything to do with sex. It had been power, control...revenge.

_...I'm not drinking the demon blood for kicks. I'm getting strong enough to kill Lilith..._

Sam's voice, the memory of the panic room, showed Dean that he was just as much of a self-deluding, selfish jerk, as his brother had been, because he knew, no matter how his conscience and his common sense argued against it, that he was going to do this. He was going to go up to an innocent girl's room, frighten her, maybe slice open her skin and watch the blood flow. And he was going to get off on it.

"Are you sure about this?" she asked, voice low and uncertain.

He should have been the one asking her that question, but he wasn't and he wasn't going to. "I'm sure," his voice had dropped, become a menace-tinged growl. He could see the shiver that ran down her spine and couldn't help his feral smile or the hardness in his jeans. 'Fucking screwed' indeed.

"Okay, okay," she swallowed convulsively, "Let's do this."

They were silent as the crossed the street, silent as she opened the door, silent as they stood in the elevator. They didn't speak but Dean watched her—predator to prey. He watched the vein in her throat flutter as her pulse went wild. He watched as she parted her lips to breathe light and shallow. He watched as she walked down the hall, steps quick and tight. When she stopped to open the doors, he put his hands to either side of her, trapping her. He was behind her, looming a little too close, a little too big. She stiffened and her breath hitched but she didn't call it off. With a swallow Dean could hear she turned the key in the lock and opened the door.

"I have an alarm," she said so he backed off until she could reset it.

He looked around the apartment assessing their options. There was carpet in the hallway and living room, probably in the bedroom too, which meant those areas would be no good for this. Knives meant blood.

"Kitchen," he asked and followed close behind as she led the way to the small space with its linoleum floor.

He was touching her now, trailing possessive fingers down her arm, over the exposed nape, watching her shiver and planning the cuts. Vera was panting, almost hyperventilating, so he leaned forward a little, "Don't pass out on me." It was gratifying when she forced her breathing to calm. "Such an obedient little girl," he purred his approval and she whimpered.

He shrugged out of his jacket and the loose shirts he wore over his T-shirt; he didn't want them dragging in anything. "Strip," he ordered. With a shuddering breath, she gathered the hem of the polo shirt with the café's logo embroidered on it, and pulled it over her head.

Dean sat down at the kitchen table and took off his boots—bare feet were easier to clean. He removed his little silver pig-sticker, checking the edge even though he knew it was as sharp as he could make it. It was familiar in his hand, comfortable. He'd have more control if he used it rather than one of Vera's kitchen knives that he'd never handled; less chance of it slipping if the handle got slick.

He kept one eye on Vera as she toed off her shoes and shimmied out of her pants. She didn't kick them away far enough but he'd take care of that. "You have scarves?" She nodded, took a half step then stopped. Dean smiled; oh yes, indeed, Vera knew the game. "Go get a couple." She turned around and headed into the bedroom and he admired her round backside as it moved and couldn't stop the thought that it was perfect for spanking.

He was sick. He was fucking sick and he knew it, for wanting _this_, wanting what he'd had in Hell. But he knew he wasn't going to stop. He wanted it too much. Hell, _Vera_ wanted it. She'd fucking _asked_ him to do this. She was willingly, even happily, giving herself over to his control.

That should've made it all right but somehow it didn't quite.

He still wasn't going to stop.

_...I carved you into a new animal, Dean. There is no going back..._

She came trotting back with the scarves. She didn't hand them over right away, but clutched nervously and looked at him, waiting for permission to speak. A zing went through him, stealing his breath, so he just nodded. "My safe word is Pomeranian," she said.

Safe word? What the hell...

"If I say that then that really means 'stop'. It's not part of this..." she waved her hands limply "this... whatever it is we're doing. The websites all recommend having one."

"You researched it?" He chuckled before Vera could answer, "Of course you did. I'm doomed to be surrounded by geeks." He held his hand out for the scarves and smiled, "Pomeranian it is. I'll even keep an ear out for pom."

After that he didn't waste any time getting her set up. Her kitchen didn't have a proper island but an attempt had been made to open the space into the living room the way most modern houses were. They'd lifted the upper cabinets and cut out the wall between the two rooms, leaving load-bearing pillars to bracket the opening. The pillars were solid and far enough apart to force her to bend over fully. There was even an overhead light: complete exposure and absolutely perfect.

He didn't speak, just positioned her as he wanted, bending her over and stretching her out. She mewled softly when he tied the scarves around her wrists, but her skin was flushed so it wasn't from fear; she wasn't backing out. As a reward, he rolled up a towel put it under her head. She was panting again so Dean ran his hand soothingly down her spine and over her ribs. He murmured to her as he mapped out her back. He'd stay away from her ass and thighs, at least for cutting, because she'd be sitting on them. They'd take a long time healing if he did. She moaned and squirmed, eagerly pushing against his hand.

He slapped a cheek hard enough to leave an imprint. "Calm down," he ordered and she struggled to do what he'd said, to _obey_ him.

Damn, he'd missed this.

He already knew what he'd be cutting into her skin: protection sigils. Since he was going to do this he was going to make something decent come out it...still didn't make it any less fucked up and he still wasn't going to stop.

He lifted up his little ankle knife and trailed it along her spine and back up. Not cutting anything yet, just letting her know it was there, it was going to happen. She whimpered and her skin pebbled in excitement.

"Please," she whispered voice thready.

"Soon," he replied, "When I'm ready." Because that was the point wasn't it? Things would happen when _he_ wanted them to and how _he_ wanted them to. That was the lure and the thrill.

Did she want him to talk to her while he did this, he wondered? He knew Alistair and some of the others had always crooned at their victims, describing in detail what they were doing, what they were planning on doing and oozing their evil stream-of-consciousness ramblings all over their victims, but he'd never been into that. When he'd picked up Alistair's knife he'd treated like he would any other job. He assessed the situation, decided what was the best way to get the result he wanted and then he did it, quick and clean just like Dad had taught him.

She whimpered again and he decided screw it. In a way he was doing this for himself, not her; if she'd wanted someone jabbering at her she'd picked the wrong person.

On the other hand, he'd always enjoyed forcing his subject to perform a task…

"Tell me about Hell," he ordered.

"What?" she yipped, taken off guard.

"Earlier today you started to describe Hell; how it's organized. Its—what did Sam call it?—its social structure," he explained. "I want you to continue where you left off."

"You've gotta be kidding me," she complained so he slapped her ass even harder. Then he slapped it again. Ten hard strokes that had her panting and whimpering and oh-so wet.

He shifted his stance to ease some of the pressure in his pants. "Talk." The command was quiet but absolute.

She shuddered and obeyed. "Prison might be a good analogy," she started. Dean pressed the blade to her skin and her voice hitched. "Most souls in Hell are merely damned, like I was." First cut, precise angle, nice and shallow… "Not evil, just… not good enough for Heaven." She paused, gasping a little.

He stopped and lifted the blade. "Too much?" he asked and then nearly kicked himself. He wasn't playing the game right.

Vera didn't care; she moaned and laughed and sounded fucking _happy_. "It's good. It's really good."

Nice to know he wasn't the only one completely fucked up. "Continue," he waited until she was talking before going back to the sigil.

"Damned souls are always someone's bitch but you _can_ work your way up to trustee," she obeyed like a good little victim.

Next cut intersected the first. There was blood now. He had a cloth ready but it was too soon to need it. He let the blood well up and drip knowing she'd be able to feel the warm liquid travel across her skin. He took a deep breath to steady himself. "Go on."

She panted, trying to pull in a shaky breath. "The next stage is the demons. There are more demons than anything else and there are different types, different powers." New cut and the pentagram became recognizable… "Some are stronger than others and they recruit other, less powerful demons. Make armies...like little kingdoms of their own." Dean started on the encompassing circle and she wriggled helplessly, trying to grind her ass into him. She was practically coming just from this, which he would never have believed possible.

He lifted his blade. "Stop that," he said. She half-sobbed at the order and struggled to still her body. Dean ignored his own growing need and waited for her to get herself under control, using the time to examine his handiwork. The anti-possession design looked good considering he'd done it with a knife. If it did scar it should work the way his tattoo did. He'd have to remember to tell her, maybe she'd get a proper one done.

She was mostly still, mostly calm. The sounds coming from her were of a woman close to the edge but not riding on it. He _loved_ that fucking sound...

He didn't touch himself, didn't dare, because he wasn't allowed to do that until he'd finished the job. He placed his blade. "Continue."

She groaned in disbelief and he smacked her for her disobedience. "Bastard," she whispered without heat. "The more demons and souls a demon controls... the more respect they get... the easier it is for them in Hell. Safer too because..." Her breath caught but she didn't move: good girl, "they throw their minions at any threat."

Dean paused, "They fight? Among themselves, I mean." He wiped up some of the blood, carefully pulling the cloth across the fresh cuts, keeping the pain sharp.

"Ye-esss," she gasped in reply. "All the time. They make treaties, trade favours and, when that doesn't work, they fight."

"That does sound like prison," Dean commented. His voice was calm, in control, and he was impressed with himself because he was so swollen that, when he finally undid his jeans, he was pretty sure he'd have an imprint of the zipper on his dick. The job always came before pleasure. "How many levels of power are there?" he asked.

"Three, three basic ones: souls, demons then-then fallen angels. Fallen angels are the top..." a gasp but nothing else. Dean continued with the design; "They rebelled with Lucifer... got banished. Nobody argued with them... or fought 'cuz they could still smite. They wanted something, they got it." Her voice groaned to a stop and she started to wiggle and squirm again. He lifted the blade and wiped her down a little, cleaning his work area. He watched as her spine twisted sinuously, arching and stretching, trying to gain the length needed to press her ass against her legs. She was so close he knew that a single touch would probably have her going off.

He didn't give her that touch...

"That' it?" he asked, keeping himself away from her enticing little behind.

It took her a while but she got her voice back. "One demon has power equal to a fallen," she answered. "She's old, like beyond Old Testament old. She's called Lilith."

She jerked and Dean realized that he'd made that last cut a little deep. He pressed a cloth to it, hard, forcing the blood away so he could get a better look at the wound. She whimpered and he shushed her softly and told her to keep going.

"Where was I?"

"Lilith," he answered. He lifted the cloth: the cut would be okay—thank Christ.

She nodded, jerking her head stiffly, "Right. Lilith. She was…was first demon...vicious, obsessed nutjob. I saw her a couple times...scary. Dean, please..."

"I'm not done yet," he told her, "but soon."

He moved the cloth over her back, dabbing away the blood from his working area, scraping lightly at the fresh cuts. In response, her hips jerked. "You were telling me about demons."

She gave a weak laugh, "You bastard."

"You wanted to play this game," Dean reminded her. "We can stop." He said it but he didn't expect her to take him up on the offer. Her breathing was rapid, her skin was flushed and he knew how wet she was. There was a part of him that wanted her to call a halt to this… thing they were doing because then they could fuck which, yeah, was a great reason to stop, but also because he still wasn't sure this didn't make him… them, both… very, very sick.

"I don't want to stop," she finally admitted.

Dean swallowed. "Then keep talking. How does a damned soul become a demon?" He had planned on doing a Sei Hei Ki but he didn't think he'd last that long. His heart was pumping so hard he could barely hear. It was taking most of his concentration just to keep his hand steady. He'd finish up with a couple Native American arrows facing left and right and that would be it.

"Shit, shit, shit," she cursed and grabbed a shaky breath. "There's a couple ways to move from...from damned soul to demon. Be a really evil son of a bitch on earth and demons'll be waiting for you... Remember Bobby Frank Cherry?" she asked and Dean made an encouraging sound. He'd never heard of the guy but he could always look him up later. It could be a clue to Vera's real identity. "He was snatched up...right away. _God!_ Dean, please..." He lifted his hands until she'd settled once again. He wanted to fuck her, push into her while she begged and moaned. "Other way is be a tough…mother impress tougher...take you…under its wing."

They were done. He lifted the blade, carefully wiped it down and placed it on the counter where she could see it.

"Stop talking."

"Oh God," she muttered which Dean might have thought kind of inappropriate if he was able to keep a coherent thought in his head.

He slid one hand down her back, smearing blood and sweat over scraped and goose-bumped flesh. The other went to between her legs, to her most sensitive flesh. It was flushed and wet and oh-so ready for him. Two fingers to start, he decided. She was wet enough they shouldn't hurt. They didn't, or maybe they did—considering her kink, her reaction wouldn't have varied either way. She twisted and moaned and silently begged for more so he quickly added another finger. He twirled them around inside her, flicking them against her moist walls and, this time, when she twisted her hips and pushed back towards him, he didn't stop her. Three fingers were tight but all it meant was that she'd be snug around him so he'd feel every clench and pulse. Perfect.

He backed away, ignoring her whimpered pleading, and went to the sink to wash his hands and his blade; his training wouldn't allow him to leave his blade dirty when the means to clean it was at hand. He debated taking his pants all the way off but decided he rather liked the idea of ramming inside her and letting his zipper mark up her pretty thighs, so he only pulled them down a little, enough to allow his erection to pop free and, fuck, that felt good.

He walked back over and started entering her right away; no words, no touch, just pow. He looked down at himself, pushing into her and it felt fucking great.

"Oh, god," she moaned, "God that feels... feels... _please_..."

It wasn't until he pulled out, slick and shiny that he realized... "Oh shit," he muttered. He'd forgotten the rubber. What the fuck? This wasn't Hell. They had real bodies here and could get real diseases... or have real fucking kids. He pulled out his wallet sure he had a couple in there, more out of habit than need these days, and quickly ripped open the foil wrapper and rolled it down his length.

Vera was begging him to continue. Her back was arched up. She was presenting her ass to him in silent plea. Just for fun he gave her cheek another hard smack. "Settle down," he ordered, "You'll wake the neighbours." She chuckled roughly but lowered her voice anyway. In appreciation for her obedience he slid into her, hard. He fucked her that way too. This wasn't for her pleasure, this was for his. He told her that and she reacted by squeezing his erection so tight he could barely move. The pressure on his full penis was barely on the side of pleasure and he couldn't completely stop his groan.

_This_ was the time to talk, Dean thought, the time he told his partner how good she felt, how wet, how tight, how fucking wonderful it felt to slide into her heat. He told her what he saw; the patterns he'd cut into her back and how they'd protect her. He told her how much he'd enjoyed doing that and how much he hoped she'd enjoyed it too.

"Touch them," she said and the words made Dean still in surprise. "Touch the marks," Vera repeated. "Trace them or something. Just touch them."

He frowned even as his cock twitched inside her. "It'll hurt..." more, again, something dark and wonderful.

She nodded her head, "I know. Please..." Her wrists twisted uselessly in her bindings. Dean watched them. She wasn't actually trying to escape. Not that she could have. For one thing he'd learned long ago in this job was how to tie a creature up so it stayed tied. For another, what would be the fun in that?

"Please..." she whispered and arched her back toward him as much as possible.

Dean wanted to, didn't want do. He shouldn't want to, he knew that, but now that Vera had put the image into his head he couldn't shake it out. Hands that had been gripping her hips, holding Vera in place for his thrusts, moved up over her waist, over her ribs. He lifted them so they wouldn't pull the designs, and then he placed them firmly over the cuts, over the fancy pentagram and the mystic knot, and he _squeezed_.

Vera keened in a mixture of pain and arousal. She jerked and bucked and fucked herself on him, still buried deep inside her body. It had to hurt as well, but maybe that was the point. He moved his hands, pressing the damaged skin over and around on hard ribs, causing more pain but no damage to the designs he'd made.

"Oh god, oh jeez," she chanted. "Dean, fuck me. Please, Dean. Oh god." And her hips rocked and reached and he knew, _he knew_, what was going to happen and he didn't even try to stop his triumphant smile. He pushed his cock in as deep as it would go and waited for the storm.

"That's it, baby," he cooed, "Make it feel good. Want you to feel good."

When she came her whole body shook, muscle spasms down the length of her spine and around her belly. Best of all, her passage felt like a fist around his cock; a hot, wet fist that milked him, demanding that he join in the fun. He thrust into her, enjoying the feeling, but nowhere near ready to go yet.

When her convulsions finally stopped, when her vagina stopped its helpless twitching and her breathing regained a normal rhythm rather than the stuttered pattern it had had before, Dean leaned over, carefully adding pressure to the wounds, and whispered in her ear. "Let's do that again, shall we?"

All Vera could do was moan.

_My brother's not coming back from Iraq, at least not alive.  
__I told him I was proud of him. I wished him luck. I thumped his back like a good manly-man.  
__But I never told him I loved him. I think I'll regret that for a long, long time.  
__Here's Band of Horses, No One's Going to Love You like me._

Sam was dreaming.

At least he was pretty sure he was dreaming... like ninety percent sure.

He was walking through a garden of roses, all sorts of roses; ones that stuck close to the ground; ones that climbed up to touch the sky; small ones, delicate and shy; and huge blooms, aggressive and proud. They were beautiful and he was... he wasn't angry here.

"My father's creations. Magnificent, aren't they?" Sam spun around and there was Nick, or rather Lucifer wearing Nick. "They grow and live. Bees feed on their nectar; caterpillars use their leaves to turn into butterflies. And they look like this." He lifted up one perfect bloom. "How can people doubt God's existence? So much care, such delicate precision..." He stroked the petals, "And what do humans do?"

"They grow places like this," Sam said.

Nick waved it away. "With poisons and fakery. They alter what He created and force them to grow when they shouldn't. They _change_ Father's perfect creation just because they can." As an opponent of genetically-modified food—Jess had explained it to him—Sam couldn't really argue with Lucifer. Which meant it was time to change the subject.

"Why are you here?"

Nick chuckled, "You know why I'm here."

True, but at least it changed the conversation. "I'm not going to say yes."

"Sure you are. Why wouldn't you?" Sam opened his mouth but the Devil wasn't finished. "What have you got that's so great, Sam? People who always betray you—"

Images, memories, flashed through his mind:

"_Dad said I might have to kill you, Sammy_." Dean looking heartsick overlaid with Dad at his most stern and ruthless. "_Even you have to admit, I'm AWEsome_!" Ruby so proud of herself. "_You're sorry you started Armageddon? This kind of thing don't get forgiven, boy_." Bobby, harsh and condemning like he never was. "_It means... you're a monster_." Dean again but that memory was blurry. He'd been too hopped up on Ruby's blood.

Blood coated everything; the words, the images, even Nick was suddenly covered with it—thick, rich, enticing. He reached out a shaky finger…

"Is this what you want?" Lucifer asked, "I can give you this. Easy."

Sam woke up panting, drenched with sweat. Aching with want but nauseated by the desire for it. He recited the Serenity prayer figuring if it worked for AA maybe it could give him a hand here… but it didn't really.

Nothing fucking helped.

He got up and ran a glass of water, drank it, then splashed some of the cold liquid over his face. He stared at himself in the mirror. Dean had called him monster. Maybe he had been but it had been months—_months_—and he'd been good with barely even a craving. Then some fucking _horseman_ of the fucking _apocalypse_ sets him up; serving him two pathetically weak demons when his willpower's at his lowest. Of fucking _course_ he fell off the fucking wagon. He wasn't a saint—or a goddamned angel for that matter.

And it's not like Dean was so fucking perfect. He was a goddamned alcoholic, or as close to one as to make no difference, but did Sam treat him like he was fucking diseased? No. _Hell_ no. Because they were still brothers and that's what was important.

Shit. This wasn't helping. He was just getting angrier and angrier. Pretty soon he'd be putting his fist through Bobby's mirror.

He snapped the bathroom light off and walked back to his room. A quick check revealed that Dean still hadn't returned but that wasn't surprising; County hospitals were notoriously busy and understaffed. He walked back into his room but ignored the bed choosing to stand at the window looking out over Bobby's acres of junk, floodlights placed here and there like spots left behind after looking at the sun. The workshop was dim so Dean wasn't there either.

Dean: his biggest fan and his greatest obstacle. Weakness and strength; guilt and courage jumbled up into a big messy pile of… something. Compost maybe, he hoped, because at least good stuff could grow out of compost.

He knocked his head lightly against the glass, trying to force his residual anger back wherever it came from. He knew he was weak but his control should be better than this.

Lucifer was using his rage against him just like he'd said he would in Carthage. If the devil could fan that anger, he could use it to drive a wedge between the brothers and that would make Sam vulnerable to manipulation… more vulnerable… whatever. But he didn't want to be angry with Dean. He didn't want to be angry at his Dad who sure as hell deserved it more than Dean did. He could accept being angry at Ruby but he couldn't push it all off on her. He'd chosen to listen to her after all.

Maybe… maybe the meditation instructor would be able to help him get rid of all this anger, something more effective than breathing which he did every fucking minute of every fucking day anyway.

He needed something that worked and fast; before Lucifer came back for another try.


	7. Rinse, Spin and Repeat

**Warnings**: Lots of talking so language warning. Other than that, amateur psycho-babble.

* * *

**Chapter 6: Rinse, Spin and Repeat**

_Sheriff Jody Mills of Willett, just west of us, is denying that dead cows discovered over the last three days  
were mutilated as part of a ritual performed by cultists to either hold off or call forth Armageddon.  
__I can't believe people actually asked her that question, I mean, really…  
__Everyone should know it's not a fight between Heaven and Hell; it's the Zombie Apocalypse! _

"What else can you tell me about Hell?"

They were lying in Vera's bed with Vera draped almost on top of Dean since she couldn't put any weight on her back yet. He rubbed light fingers over her back, careful of the butterfly bandages and the ointment. He'd have to remember to stock up the Impala's first aid kit before Sam saw it.

"You really want to talk about Hell now? Again?"

They were both damp from the shower and wrung out from the sex and the memories and Dean could understand why she was looking at him like he was crazy, and maybe he was, but he had to know. It was like he was ten and his tooth had just fallen out and it hurt but he had to keep poking his tongue into the gaping wound. He nodded.

"Surprisingly, I don't remember where we left off," she said as she tucked her head back down onto his chest. She yawned and rubbed her cheek against his skin.

Dean chuckled and gave the top of her head a gentle kiss. "Being adopted by a tougher demon or something."

"Right," she said, her voice sleepy and dragging "So it's like a mentor-apprentice thing. If a demon takes a liking to you they'll ask you to join up. Normal souls generally don't get asked because they have no unique talents or skills; just ordinary people having lived ordinary not-nice lives." She rubbed a lazy hand over his chest, petting him like he was precious. "That was me. I was never asked because I had nothing any demon wanted. 'Drunk and stupid is no way to get through life'," she muttered but Dean hardly heard her.

"They ask; you say yes, and you become a _demon_?" Dean said, low-voiced with horror. He remembered saying yes. He remembered reaching out his hand for the knife and cutting up his first poor soul.

Vera was shaking her head. She ran soothing hands over him. "Saying yes just started the process," she said. "Oaths, rites and other rituals, nasty ones too. If you survived those, _then_ you were a demon. But you'd still be traded away whenever your 'mentor' got a better offer. I actually think being a low level demon was worse than being a damned soul because they couldn't disintegrate or repent. No forgiveness or escaping from Hell for them. On the bottom for the rest of eternity."

"I didn't do anything like that," Dean said, still stuck on saying yes and becoming a demon.

"They wouldn't have let you," Vera responded sleepily. "From what I heard, they needed you righteous and you can't be a demon _and_ be righteous. The two are somewhat mutually exclusive."

_...When we bring on the apocalypse and burn this earth down, we'll owe it all to you, Dean Winchester..._

He could hear that smarmy, nasal voice. He'd know it anywhere, whatever meat suit Alistair was riding, the voice remained the same.

This time Vera reacted to Dean's sudden tension by lifting her head. "What?"

Dean was staring at her, green eyes hard and flat in the dim light. "How do you know that? That they had a purpose for me," he demanded. He knew, even as he said it, that his voice was too harsh. It was his 'I'm going to kill you' voice. He just had to hope that Vera was too well trained to want to scream and run away.

She was. She swallowed and her voice was shaky, but she responded to his command. "The guards gossiped all the time and I mean _all_ the time. And they didn't care if we heard them because what could we do? We couldn't get out of Hell and _warn_ anybody." She looked at Dean, waiting to see if that was okay. He nodded and she let out a breath. He put his hand on the back of her head, encouraging her to lie back down; trying to reassure her that he wasn't going to hurt her; trying to forget the voice that haunted his memories.

_...Dean, Dean, Dean... I am so disappointed. You had such promise..._

"Go on," he murmured; anything to drown out that voice.

"All they talked about was 'The Plan'. They compared Azazel's handling of it to Lilith's, critiquing it like armchair quarterbacks discuss the Superbowl. The only thing they talked about more was their sex lives. Standing in the checkout lane kind of reminds me of them," she snorted in amusement but Dean didn't join in. No way could he picture any of the demons he'd met cooing over pictures of Brangelina's kids, except as possible appetisers.

"It started with your father—the first time I ever heard about The Plan, I mean—but according to the guards, Alistair screwed up and broke him and the high-ups freaked."

_...same offer I made you. I'd put down my blade if he picked one up..._

"Dad didn't break," Dean said flatly. "He would never break."

"Of course he broke. Everybody breaks," Vera responded sleepily matter of fact, "Lilith made him do research on brainwashing and coercion and stuff so he wouldn't make the same mistakes with you—"

"He never broke," Dean repeated, "Alistair—"

"It was torture and he shattered."

Dean tensed and she lifted herself to look down at him. He looked away, rejecting what she said.

She flopped back down on his chest, forcing an 'oof' out of him. "Read up on it. God knows I did," she muttered. "Everybody breaks. It's not a bad thing. In your dad's case, it actually a worked out pretty good." Dean glared at her but she wasn't looking so she didn't back down. "After that happened, they couldn't really touch couldn't hold his soul together long enough to do whatever it was they wanted him to do, _and_ they couldn't put him back on the table for the same reason. It was a good thing," she repeated, "It let him survive as mostly himself, I think."

_...John, he was made of something unique: the stuff of heroes... _

This was... wrong, terribly wrong and a lie. His dad hadn't broken, he wouldn't. Except that he only had Alistair's word that he hadn't and demons lied, he _knew_ that... He'd never questioned what Alistair had told him that day, that day he'd had him in the devil's trap torturing him for the angels, the lying dicks.

Suddenly Dean felt like he had ants crawling under his skin, gnawing on his hair follicles or something. He couldn't breathe. She was too heavy... and she was probably looking at him funny and he just... couldn't anymore. "I have to go."

"You have to..." Vera lifted herself once more, wincing slightly when the action pulled at the cuts. Dean didn't know what she saw in his face, he used to think he had a pretty good poker face, but whatever she was able to read make her stop whatever she was going to say. "Okay," she nodded gently. "Sure. I'll see you to the door." She started the slow process of getting out of bed.

"You don't have to." Actually he didn't want her to because she'd probably want to do small talk or make arrangements to get together again. Maybe she'd ask him to cut her again. Dean wanted to puke.

"Yeah, I do. Alarm remember?"

He hadn't remembered... he hadn't remembered _anything_.

_...John Winchester. Made a good name for himself. A hundred years..._

He reached over for his pants and dragged them on. Okay, Dean told himself, he could do this. He could act normal and sane and not like an evil torturer or someone with 'daddy issues'. Meg used to toss that phrase at him a lot, back when she was taunting him in Hell, in between Alistair's sessions. Funny, he'd nearly forgotten the black-eyed bitch used to come around, sticking things into his open wounds and _twisting_ just for fun.

His boots were in the kitchen, along with his socks and most of his shirts. And the first-aid kit he'd brought in from the car. His coat and his weapons; he had to get them too.

Mercifully, Vera remained silent as he gathered up his gear and got ready to leave.

"We'll, you know, be in touch if we have any more questions," he said because they might have to if she was at the center of what they were investigating. He'd let Sam do the talking next time, that might be a good idea. Probably was a good idea considering where this little 'talk' had ended up.

He'd fucking _cut_ her. Cut her so that he could see the blood run just like he'd done in Hell. Even if his father _had_ broken in Hell, he sure wouldn't be proud of his oldest now... not that he'd ever said the was proud, at least not very often, and now Dean had proven him right, proven them _all _right; Alistair, Ruby, Uriel... Anna who'd burned right in front of him...

"Hey!" Vera called Dean back to the present. She tapped his cheek. "Are you up to driving? I mean, seriously, because I can call a cab." She'd turned the light on in the entrance way. There was nowhere to hide.

"Of course I can fucking drive; I'm not twelve," he snapped back.

"No, but you are glassy-eyed and incoherent." She peered at him in concern. "Maybe you should have a glass of juice before you go." Vera shuffled into the kitchen before he could stop her.

"I don't need any juice," he protested, following her into the scene of his crime. She already had it poured and was holding out the glass for him to drink. He took it, "Fine," and gulped it down. "Happy now?"

"Pretty much," she gave him a soft smile and put the glass on the counter. Then she reached out and grabbed the lapels of his jacket and pulled. He rocked forward a little but otherwise, didn't budge. "You're not evil, Dean. You may be fucked up in a lot of ways, but that's not one of them," she said firmly, staring at him. It kind of reminded him of the 'you're not a monster' speeches he used to give Sammy.

"And you're not a lesser man than your father was," she went on, "You're just you and that's good enough for me."

Dean ducked his head and looked away. He knew it was a tell even as he did it and he knew this woman would pick up on it. She didn't say anything though, just sighed then leaned up and gave him a soft kiss. "Drive safely okay?" she said before releasing him.

He just stared, uncertain of what had just happened. If this had been Sam then there's no way the conversation would've ended there. "That's it?" he asked then could've kicked himself. Did he _want_ to have a huge chick-flick moment? Vera smiled, bright and sharp, and Dean figured that his face had given away his thoughts just fine, thank you very much.

"I'm not family, Dean. We shared something, something _I'm_ going to remember fondly, but that doesn't give me the right to pry," she said. "If we ever do this again," she twirled her finger vaguely indicating the both of them and the kitchen and the bedroom—all of it, everything, "then maybe it'll be almost a relationship type thing. Maybe then, but not now."

"Most people would ask," Dean pointed out.

She smiled again, more sadly this time, "Maybe I don't need your pain added to mine." Dean opened his mouth but she put a finger on it. "Go home. Talk to your brother if you want. If anyone deserves to know, he does."

Dean snorted. He was so not having this conversation with his brother. Sam didn't need the extra weight when he had all this other stuff riding his ass. But it was an exit line and he was taking it. He didn't even wait for the door to close before he was running down the stairs two and three at a time.

_That was The Dirty Hoe, a guide to organic gardening with Capability Brown,  
__with tips on prepping your garden when the weather's so weird.  
__At least it's finally promising to warm up, melt some of that snow.  
__So now we can look forward to flooded basements and mud up to our knees.  
__Ah, spring in South Dakota…_

Sam was considering trying that sleep thing again when he heard the Impala's distinctive rumble. He glanced at the clock on Bobby's microwave: 3:17. Only two more hours until he needed to be at work... joy. He got up, poured himself another glass of juice and chugged it as Dean entered Bobby's kitchen.

"Little early for a beer, isn't it Sammy?" The tease was perfunctory but Sam still rolled his eyes.

"It's juice," he responded, "Want some?" He wasn't surprised when Dean made a face. Sam couldn't remember how old they'd been, but he could remember his brother getting violently ill after drinking a carton of juice that had started to ferment. Now the older Winchester had to be feeling really shitty before he'd touch the stuff.

Dean moved to the coffee pot and got it started instead. "Why aren't you in bed," he asked, "Having a rough night?"

Sam stared into his empty glass, debating, but Dean had a right to know, "Dreams."

"As in 'fallen angels are invading my brain' dreams?"

Sam chuckled in bleak humour, "Yeah, like that."

"He's really pushing you, isn't he," Dean's voice was as gentle and understanding as it ever got.

For some reason Sam felt like he was being handled... like Dean was afraid he'd go Dark Side again or something, and the anger, never far from the surface, flared up again. "Don't worry. I'm not going to say yes," he snapped.

"Dude, that's not—"

"I know I let you down," Sam interrupted him, "but it's not going to happen again."

Dean frowned, "We've already been over the killing Lilith thing."

Sam shook his head. "Not Lilith...or, or Ruby. Just now; Famine and...the demon blood thing. And using those...my powers again." He swallowed down his anger and forced the words out, "I know I disappointed you... and I'm sorry."

Dean stared at him. "You didn't disappoint me, Sam. You saved me. And Cas."

"Yeah right you're not disappointed," he scoffed. "I saw how you looked at me. How scared you were... of me. Afraid I was turning into a monster again." Sam stared at his brother, jaw clenched, ready for the blow.

Dean shook his head but stared back steadily; his way of trying to let Sam know just how serious he was. "No, not _of_ you, I mean you were freaking scary but that's not really it. I was scared _for_ you. You took out five demons—"

"Four," Sam corrected.

Dean waved it away, "Whatever. Four demons and _Famine_. Dude, you took out a fucking Horseman...with your _mind_.

Sam could feel his jaw tighten. "I know; I could so I did."

"Exactly," Dean agreed which wasn't what Sam had expected, "And that was with just two demons. Imagine what you'd've been capable of if you'd taken Famine up on his offer of more?" This time Sam looked away because Dean's eyes weren't accusing, they were sad and scared and worried and all those emotions were _for_ _him_.

Dean wasn't finished, "Lucifer is never going to stop chasing you. You could turn into the world's biggest pacifist—the freaking Dalai Lama or the Love Guru or some shit like that—and he isn't ever going to leave you alone." He stopped but the burbling coffee filled the silence. "I know you're working on a way to get rid of your anger—meditating for God's sake—but will it work?"

Sam hunched a defensive shoulder but stayed quiet. How could he know? It's not like this stuff came with a manual.

Dean sighed. "Anger has always been your weak spot, Sam. Even as a kid you were always raging about something, injustices and slights, just waiting to vent all your frustration on someone—usually me," Dean bitched with a faint smile but Sam didn't smile back. Instead he glared at Dean who sighed. "What I'm afraid of is that Lucifer will pick a moment when you're angry enough you'd say yes to just about anything as long as you got some pay back."

"Like I did with Ruby and Lilith," Sam had to clarify.

"I guess," Dean looked away but tried to cover it by getting down a mug and pouring himself some coffee. "It's just that, if Lucifer ever manages to turn you—"

"He won't." Sam tried to reassure Dean but the older hunter just shook his head.

"When you walked into that restaurant, covered in demon blood, you were so calm and confident... You were filled with so much power that the place vibrated with it..." Dean stopped and stared into his coffee. "He's not going to stop trying, Sam. You're everything he could want."

Silence filled the kitchen. The fridge hummed and a clock ticked, but there wasn't even the coffee pot to cover up the quiet... until Sam laughed. Dean looked up at him in question.

"That has got to be the weirdest compliment anyone has ever received." A reluctant smile lifted one side of his brother's mouth and Sam cherished it. Peace offering accepted.

"I suppose," Dean agreed, "Doesn't make it any less frightening though."

"Not really," Sam shrugged, "which is why I'm down here instead of upstairs in bed... not sleeping."

"Well, in that case, geek-boy. I may have some intel for you regarding Vera's true identity."

"Really?" When Dean nodded Sam grabbed his own cup of coffee and sat down by his laptop. It was Dean's version of a peace offering and Sam snapped it up. "What did you learn?"

"Vera was in the Pit sometime before 2004." Dean said. "She mentioned a name, Bobby Frank Cherry—"

"Who?" Sam interrupted even as he typed the name into Google.

"He was one of the guys convicted of bombing the Baptist church in Birmingham in the early 60's killing a bunch of black kids. He died in 2004." Sam stared at his brother in shock. Dean shrugged. "Cassie told me about it." And Sam remembered there were four years of his brother's life that he knew practically nothing about. He'd been in love with Cassie but she hadn't been able to deal with Dean's job. After all this time, she was another sore spot that was never, ever discussed.

"How did his name get worked into the conversation?" Sam asked because he was having a hard time figuring that one out.

"She used him as an example of what kind of human gets turned into a demon. When Cherry descended, or whatever, he got snapped up right away and recruited. Apparently, that's not standard practice."

"What is standard practice... and that sounds like a really stupid phrase to be applying to Hell." Dean smirked in agreement as he poured himself another cup of coffee. Then he began to talk.

Listening to Dean explain what he'd learned about Hell's hierarchy from the woman in Vera's body, Sam realized he'd never really asked Ruby about Hell: how it was structured and what kind of internal politics it had. He'd known her for two years and Dean had found out more from a woman he'd only known for two days.

In his own defence, he _had_ brought it up once but Ruby had made it seem so difficult to explain, so painful to remember, that he'd backed off and never asked again. If he hadn't been so blinded by his desire for revenge, maybe he would've forced it but it hadn't seemed important enough to justify hurting her like that.

But blood oaths and rituals meant she hadn't just 'slid' into being a demon like she'd said. It hadn't been just a matter of forgetting her humanity. No, she'd _chosen_ it, worked for it... fucking _earned_ it. Ruby had manipulated his ass _so hard_… He swallowed a disgusted sound—such a fucking gullible idiot.

"Sounds like Vera was down there a long time," he said when his brother finished. "Do you really think she's still human?"

Dean snorted, "I doubt she's fully human, she's reanimating someone else's body, but she's not a demon."

Sam wasn't so sure. "Lilith and Alistair were able to shrug off holy water," he pointed out.

"But not Christus," Dean countered. "And not salt. Those always had an effect."

"Salt?" Sam frowned, "When'd you get a chance to try salt on her?"

Dean shifted his position a little. "Salt water," he cleared his throat, "I used salt water."

"Not as effective as pure salt but okay," Sam conceded. "Still doesn't explain why. Did she do something to make you suspicious?" he asked. "What did she do?"

Dean cleared his throat again and turned away. "Nothing, she did nothing." He was covering up something.

"What was it, Dean," Sam pressed.

Dean turned back to him, fake little smile in place. "Just cleaning some wounds."

"With salt water?" Sam was horrified. "That must have hurt like a bitch."

The other hunter shifted his weight again. "But her eyes didn't turn black, so..." He cleared his throat again. "Anyway, I think I'm going to call it a night... or maybe a morning. Time to rack out."

And it clicked. Sam knew why Dean had been shuffling his feet like a naughty schoolboy. "You slept with her." It wasn't a question. "A possible evil entity, certainly a supernatural one, and you had sex with her. How could you be so stupid?"

Dean's face shut down. "Pot and kettle, little brother," he snapped back and Sam flinched like he'd been slapped.

The conversation was over and whatever rapport they'd rediscovered was gone once again. Sam said nothing as Dean emptied his cup into the sink and stalked out of the room. He listened to his brother's light tread on the stairs, tracking his movements by the creaking of the floor: bedroom, bathroom then back to bed. He listened and tried to ignore the rage that had risen up inside him, just as he tried to ignore the urge to toss his laptop against the wall.

This had to stop. Tomorrow, or rather later today, he'd talk to Dave the meditation instructor, and find a way to fix this.

_Everyone's talking about the end of the world... again.  
__Today it's the biblical Apocalypse. Tomorrow it's the Nazca calendar.  
__Hello people! Doesn't anyone remember just ten years ago? Y2K, ring any bells?  
__Why does anyone think this 'end of the world' is going to be any more real than the last one?  
__Puh-leese! It's going to sputter and die, and nothing will have changed._

Sam had been surprised when the meditation instructor had turned out to be a guy. Then he'd mentally slapped himself for the gender stereo-typing going on in his brain. After all, _he_ was going to meditation and _he_ was a guy. And he wasn't the only male attending these sessions; there were usually about five men sitting on the mats listening to their own breathing. Sam breathed right along with them. He did the gentle stretching and visualized his anger and tension as a river flowing through him and out of him replacing them with unicorns and rainbows... He controlled his sneer. At least they didn't chant ohm.

It wasn't that it didn't help him relax—it did. It was just that it wasn't actually helping him get rid of his anger, that roiling pit of rage that was his own bit of Hellfire. Whatever tension he dispersed during the exercises came crashing back once they were finished because the pit wasn't any smaller, the lid wasn't any tighter and he felt the same as when they'd fucking started!

Today wasn't any different. It was okay when he was actually doing this stuff; Dad's training, Dean's training...even Ruby's had all taught him how to focus completely on the task at hand. It was actually nice to have one thing to think about even if it was, you know, his breathing but once the session was over reality came crashing back in. Today he had the added bonus of remembering last night's dream, and the fight with Dean just to add that extra bit of suckage he needed to his life.

He'd already decided to talk to the instructor so, when the session was over, he waited until most of the people had left, spending the time picking up the extra mats and stacking them on the side like a good employee.

"Hey Dave, can I speak to you for a sec?" Sam realized he'd automatically hunched over a little, trying not to intimidate or maybe just get them closer to eye level. Dave wasn't even six feet and it made Sam feel like King Kong. Dave didn't even seem to notice. He just looked up at him inquiringly and said 'sure'.

Now it sounded stupid but Sam pushed it out anyway. "Is there any way to speed up the process?" The inquiring look changed to one of confusion. "I mean, using this stuff to get rid of your anger. Are there any tricks to help," he shrugged, squirmed really, "make it go faster?"

Dave sort of chuckled at little. He settled a hip on the low shelving unit where the incense smoked and the water ball trickled and a little Buddha sat and smiled serenely at the world. "There are no shortcuts, Sam, no tricks."

"What?" He really didn't need to hear that. Didn't need to, didn't want to.

"This isn't like a get rich quick scheme. It's a lifestyle change and those take time to have an effect." Dave looked at him in understanding. "Not what you wanted to hear?"

"Not even close," Sam admitted. "I need..." he started but he _did_ need help so this was no time to be a pussy. "I have so much rage inside of me sometimes, all the time," he corrected, "and I'm afraid if I can't get rid of some of it, I'm going to seriously hurt someone." Like the whole world starting with his brother.

"Well that's a legitimate fear and it's good that you're being proactive in confronting your anger, but meditation won't get rid of it for you. It won't even help you control it, not in the sense most people mean of control i.e. keep it bottled in. What it will do, is give you the tools to manage it."

Sam laughed, "You sound like a counsellor's for someone with a terminal illness."

Dave smiled back, "You're actually not that far off base. Anger is something you have to deal with your whole life. Some people have more of it than others but, however much you experience, it never leaves you and it's never far away, just like someone dealing with a major illness."

This wasn't what Sam wanted to hear—really, really not. He took a breath, looking up to the ceiling and away from Dave. He crossed his arms to keep them still.

"You feel like hitting me or hitting something right now, don't you?" It wasn't really a question.

Another breath, "Yeah, I do," Sam admitted. "It just rises up out of nowhere. I can't control it. I don't even know where it comes from!" Although he had a pretty good idea where a lot of it came from, he was not going into demon's blood and the Apocalypse with a Middle American self-help guru.

"It doesn't matter where it comes from," Dave said, "What matters is that the anger is yours _now_." Sam was already shaking his head, rejecting it. "You have to take ownership of your feelings, Sam, good and bad, before you can ever hope to get a handle on them. You can recognize that certain events and people have had an effect on you and your emotions but you also have to recognize that they are _your _emotions. You decide when and how much you're going to let them control your actions."

Sam was frowning, "That's backwards."

"Is it?" Dave's eyebrows were up. "You're at the express check-out and the lady in front of you has a more items than she's supposed to plus she's arguing with the cashier over an expired coupon. It makes you angry that people can't understand the simplest, most obvious things." He looked at Sam to confirm he was following the scenario. Sam nodded because it was annoying when that happened. "So do you hit her?"

"What? No!" Sam answered.

"But you kind of want to, don't you," Dave continues, "You'd like to punch her stupid fat face in because she's there, in front of you, and she's an idiot that's making your life more miserable than it needs to be."

"I don't feel like that," Sam protested automatically.

"Really? Or do you believe that you _shouldn't_ feel that way because it's not 'nice' or 'polite'. Or that thinking that way makes you somehow an evil person." Sam couldn't help it, he flinched. Dave gave him a sympathetic look. "Every time you deny your emotions, you are rejecting a part of yourself. You're shoving the so-called ugly bits of yourself into a closet until the door bulges and groans under the strain. One day, it will burst open and all of the emotions you've been denying will come flying out and bury you—you, your family, your friends."

"I'm not going to punch the lady at the counter," he said firmly.

"No, you're not," Dave agreed, "What you're going to do is acknowledge that you're angry at her, accept that it's _your_ anger, and then decide what you're going to do about it."

"But that doesn't get rid of the anger," Sam pointed out.

"Do you need to? Or do you need to learn how to think through it, think beyond it?" Sam looked away because, yeah, half the time when the anger took control of him he didn't think clearly.

"Anger isn't _bad_," Dave said, "In its milder forms we'd call it aggression, which we like in our pro-sports stars, or determination, which we encourage for success in business. It's all in how it's applied. Love can lead to obsession and murder, just like anger, but nobody says _love's_ bad."

"'There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so'?"

Dave snorted, "Exactly. Shakespeare got it right again."

Sam stood, looking at the twisting smoke of the incense, listening to the gentle murmur of the water, and thinking about the things Dave had said. He wanted there to be some quick fix, like have an angel come down and zap his anger away and tell him it was all Azazel's fault; that really, under all the demon's blood that had been forced into him, he was a kind, gentle soul and always would be.

"So what you're saying is that this anger—my anger—feels out of control because I don't want ownership of it."

Dave nodded, "That's essentially it."

"And it's that easy?" No fucking way was it that easy.

"It's not that easy," Dave laughed, "It's that _simple_ but it's not easy. It's being aware, every minute of every day, of what you're thinking, what you're feeling. Monitoring yourself for triggers and habits that contribute to your lack of control and _changing them_. I've been doing this for more than fifteen years and I still need to step back at times and decide not to punch the lady at the counter."

"You?" Sam asked, frowning. Dave was one of the most peaceful, calm persons he'd met. No way did he have anger issues. "No way."

"Uncontrollable rages, getting into fights, punching things; the whole sh-bang," Dave confirmed. "I had an excuse; a messy childhood. It let me justify a lot when I was a kid or on my own but then I got married and took on the role of a responsible adult; became a father. Guess who I took most of my anger out on?" Sam's mouth opened but nothing came out. Dave still nodded knowing Sam had guessed right, "My family."

"What made you decide to get help?" Sam asked.

Dave shrugged, "The Court ordered me into counselling and various treatments, including meditation, but it was my daughter, looking up at me from where she was kneeling in her mother's blood and calling me a monster, that made me decide to stick to something. My dad was the monster, not me, never me. I was an abused child so I couldn't be the monster. It was like a rule. Except to her I was."

"I don't want to be a monster either." It was a bleak statement.

Dave patted his arm, "And every time you don't punch the lady you take one step farther away from becoming one." He got up and headed toward the door. Sam just stood and watched.

"The longest journey begins with a single step." Self help platitude, Sam wondered, or ancient wisdom rediscovered?

"Lao-tzu," Dave nodded in recognition. "It doesn't work for everyone but maybe it will help you fight your demons."

It was just as well Dave closed the door when he left or else he would've wondered why Sam was laughing his head off.

_In keeping with all the monster stories going around, Annie and I went and saw The Wolfman.  
__All we can say is don't bother. –It was really dumb and it didn't even have any hot guys to look at.  
__If you want good action—and cute guys—you'd be better off rewatching Transformers or the Pirates of the Caribbean  
__—first ones only though—yeah, the sequels were pretty meh.  
__This is Annie—and Katie—with your Thumbnail Movie Review for March 11th._

For people with clean homes, clean cars, and clean offices, the members of the Wellness Center sure could be pigs, Sam thought as he put on the gloves to, once again, clean out the toilet stalls. The used towels that were left on the benches rather than tossed into the laundry bag were annoying but expected. The used condoms and empty KY containers? Not so much. And it wasn't just in the guys' side. He found this kind of stuff in the ladies' room as well, which was completely eye-opening. He'd lived with Jess for over a year, had been forced to listen in on her and her friends talking about things that no man should ever have to know about their girlfriend—he'd had sex with a _demon _for god's sake—so he'd kind of thought that nothing could shock him.

He'd been wrong.

"Sam," said a voice from behind him, "Sam Winchester."

He spun around. "Mitzy," he said in cautious acknowledgement. Her voice was soft and female but not flirty and bubbly which was her usual tone. "Where's Cliff?" He figured this was another one of the weird 'make'em jealous' games that the pair liked to play on each other.

"He's not here right now. It's just you and me." She smiled but the smile was absolutely misdirected because that was the smile she used on her boyfriend who was about 400 pounds of muscle and who was, despite the stupid little games they played, the centre of her world.

"What's going on?" He was already cataloguing the many ways this could go very, very wrong up to and including Cliff snapping his spine like a toothpick then Mitzy's eyes went black. Fucking _shit!_

"I saw you through the window and couldn't believe it was actually you: Sam Winchester, the Vessel." It took a step closer. "I wanted to speak to you. I _had_ to speak to you..."

"You're not Mitzy," Sam said which was both stupid and obvious but he had to stall. They'd found him which meant it wouldn't take long for Lucifer to come calling. _Shitshitshit. _He had no weapons, not even holy water or a rosary.

"I want to work for you," it said pleadingly as it ran Mitzy's delicate hands over her generous figure. "I'll do anything, anything you need..."

Sam realized that this demon wasn't a hunter; it was another fucking Ruby who wanted to be First VP when Sam said yes to Lucifer. He stopped moving away from it. "You want to work for me?"

It moved Mitzy's body closer, looking up at him with huge eyes. It reached for his left hand and he let it grab hold. "Yes, of course, I want to work for you—everyone does. When you accept your destiny it will be glorious."

Sam wanted to puke so bad...

"Christus," he said and the demon flinched. Sam used the moment to get his arm around the thing's neck. He couldn't squeeze too hard because there was a chance that Mitzy was still alive in there. "_Exorcizamus te, omnis_—"

The thing inside Mitzy yowled and squirmed as Sam continued with the exorcism. He'd figured out some shortcuts for the ritual in the year he'd let Ruby lead him around by his... well, nose wasn't quite right but it would do. Certain words were essential, but not all of them, and when he added a dash of demon power, an exorcism could be done in half the time it took a normal person. He may not be all hopped up on demon's blood anymore, but he wasn't normal, not since he'd drunk all the demon from that nurse—whose name he should remember but couldn't. It had changed him permanently so he could still give the demon inside Mitzy the push it needed to get out of the bubble-headed receptionist quicker than normal. "..._divini __Agni sanguine redemptis_."

The demon poured out of Mitzy's mouth in a screeching cloud. Escaped, not dead, not even sent back to Hell.

Part of him felt cheated, wanted to feel the triumph of obliterating his enemy and he was supposed to be safe here, protected, hidden. Away from the demons that tempted him to be someone other than himself. He could feel his arm tightening around the girl's delicate throat because he blamed her for destroying his break from reality. It was the darkest, angriest part of himself that Sam routinely called Dark Sam so he could distance himself from it. It wasn't him...

"You have to take ownership of your feelings, Sam," he heard Dave's voice.

Oh shit...

The rage cleared from his mind. He took deep breath. Mitzy was whimpering and clutching at his arm. She was freaking _tiny_ in his grip. He loosened his arm and she took a gulp of air. "Mitzy?" he asked, not knowing what the question really was.

"Sam? Oh my god!" she cried, "What _was_ that? That thing was _inside_ me! I was so _angry_ because Cliff wasn't looking at my new shoes and then there was this black inky _stuff_ surrounding me and then I was tossing him across the room and I _laughed_ when he didn't get up. Oh god, what if I killed Cliff?" she cried and it was wet and sloppy and not the delicate, flirty tears she was known for

"It's okay, shh...shh," he soothed, or tried to—not much he could do to make her feel better. "We're gonna call Cliff, find out if he's okay. No point in panicking before we know for sure, right?" Mitzy nodded and swallowed and began to get her tears under control.

"It's okay, Mitzy," Sam said uselessly, "It wasn't you." He helped her to the break room where her cell phone was ringing and buzzing.

She ran over to it and picked it up like it held the mysteries to the universe. "It's him!" She lifted it to her ear, "Baby, you okay?" Sam was completely forgotten as the two lost themselves in reassurances and cooing, as if the whole thing had been just another one of their games. He wondered how long it would take before the two of them developed a 'completely logical explanation' for how five-foot-four-Mitzy could take out six-foot-eight Cliff.

The human mind had an amazing capacity to rationalize away the unacceptable.

This brought his conversation with Dave back because, the way Sam had blamed something else inside him for the desire to just kill Mitzy and be done with it, was exactly what the instructor had been talking about. How Sam rationalized his emotions so that he didn't have to admit to them. Except that, in this instance, he would've been the one to kill little Mitzy. Not Dark Sam, his evil alter-ego created by Azazel and nurtured by Ruby. Sam Winchester who was supposed to be one of the good guys.

It was like he was a kid, standing next to the broken cookie jar and saying 'it wasn't me; I didn't do it'. As if saying it made it true...

All the hurtful, hateful, petty things he'd done in his life where he'd blamed somebody else...and there were lots he could think of starting with not calling Dean from Palo Alto to leaving him on that hotel floor while he ran off with Ruby to kill Lilith. Not his fault, they'd pushed him, made him, changed him... If they hadn't done/said 'X' then he wouldn't have done/said 'Y' so it was their fault that he was who, or what, he was today.

Except that he'd had choices...there were always choices, just like Dave had said. He'd also said that changing the 'not me' habit wasn't easy and, if this little episode was an example, the guy was right.

Shit...

He gave his temples a hard rub as if that would help him deal with the realization of just how hard this was going to be. He heard the boss calling his name and suddenly remembered the half-cleaned change room. He went back to finish his job and if the Serenity Prayer ran through his mind in time with the swishing of the toilet brush only he had to know.


	8. Standing Still

**Warnings**: Domesticity & semi-juvenile humour. That's about it.

* * *

**Chapter 7: Standing Still**

_The internet has changed our world but I'm not always sure it's for the better.  
__Life is fast, too fast, we hardly have time to appreciate the small things  
__like friends and family, the warmth of the sun and the smell of the blossoms.  
__Don't you sometimes wish that life was simple again?  
_

Dean heard the higher pitched Chevelle rumble into the yard and gave the spaghetti sauce a quick stir. He shoved the garlic toast in the pre-heated oven and put the pasta into the boiling water. Sam had left step-by-step instructions for Dean because, according to his brother, canned sauce wasn't good enough, not any more. They'd grown up on canned spaghetti and he'd never complained.

Of course, this stuff smelled better than Chef-Boyardee ever had and he was never, ever going to tell the princess that; no need to give him any more ammunition.

He padded over to the table in his socks and cleared off the day's research, putting down plates and cutlery, napkins and condiments, in its place. He was missing something... He snapped his fingers: salad. He hadn't put it together yet but Sam had left instructions for it too.

"Bobby!" he yelled, "Supper in twenty."

It occurred to him as he pulled out the Romaine and put it on the cutting board that he, Dean Winchester, hunter, hell-bait and holy vessel, was cooking. He was doing what ordinary people did, people who didn't have angels or demons or destiny chasing their asses. As minimal as it was—sauce bubbling on the stove and stuff cooking in the oven—it symbolized a life that was alien to him. It was a life of routine, of stability, of normalcy.

Dean had to swallow to loosen up his chest. He had to tell himself that it was only temporary; it wasn't his life and it was never going to be. He had to banish that part of himself that asked why this couldn't be his life; why did they have to be the ones to give up everything? It was too late for that. It had been too late ever since he was fourteen and standing beside his dad watching a monster burn to ash—his first kill. Or maybe it had been too late even earlier, when his dad had first put a gun in his hand and told him to protect his brother. He'd been seven? Seven or eight, he didn't remember anymore. Didn't matter, the possibilities went back all through his childhood.

And, if that asshole Cupid was telling the truth, it had been too late way before he'd been born.

_...you're a hunter. Not because your dad made you, not because God called you back from hell, but because it is what you are..._

A sudden thought occurred to him, broke him out of his melancholy and made him snort in amusement. What if he'd chosen to stay in the Djinn's dream world? From where he was sitting now, living a fake life didn't sound like such a bad thing. His body would've been dead already and where would his Great Destiny have been then? The angels would've had to find someone else for their holy grudge match.

Except... out of all the miles he'd covered hunting that thing, how had Sam known where to find him?

He snorted again, rejecting out of hand the idea of divine guidance. No way had an angel guided his brother to that abandoned factory. Sam was just that good.

He threw the lettuce in the bowl, then the bacon bits—real bacon not that soy junk—then some grated cheese out of a little deli bag rather than a jar. He poured some dressing over it and tossed. Croutons after so they didn't get soggy, just like Sam had written on the paper. One step after the next; easy-peasy.

He was stirring the pasta in the water when Sam walked in. "Smells good, Dean," he said.

Bobby rolled into the room, "Don't forget the bread in the oven."

Dean turned around, half afraid he was going to see smoke, but there was nothing. He'd set the timer for God's sake. He glared at the old hunter and got a triumphant smirk in return. "Idjit."

Sam grinned, "I think we should get him an apron."

"Frills?" Bobby asked.

"Definitely."

Dean glared even harder, "You know I can still open a can of Spaghetti-O's."

Sam ignored him, "Pink, he'd look good in pink."

"He could've used that one he got you last week," Bobby suggested.

"Kitchen Bitch?" Sam confirmed, "Yeah that would look good on him."

"Yak it up, assholes, but I'd look good in anything," Dean mocked even as he slid the hot bread out of the oven... and promptly dropped it on the oven door because that fucker was _hot!_

"Can't stand the heat, Dean?" Bobby's voice was serious and it cracked Sam up. He went over to the stove and gathered up the garlic bread—using the oven mitts Dean had forgotten—and put it on the table.

Even with that little mishap, supper was on the table in no time and the insults flew faster than the food disappeared into the three hungry bodies. Sam and Bobby against Dean, Dean and Sam versus Bobby; allegiances were fluid and extremely temporary. More than the food, it was the laughter that made the meal taste so good.

After supper they gathered in Bobby's den, Sam and Dean with their beers and Bobby with his whiskey. They avoided the latest bad news, there was only so much freakishly bad weather they could absorb, and updated each other on Cas' search for God (nothing new as the angel hadn't checked in); Bobby's search for a way to either kill Lucifer or send him back to Hell (just one ritual involving the death of sixty-six innocents which was easily rejected... it wasn't even guaranteed to work); and Dean's research on Sioux Falls recent increase in ghost sightings.

"They started being noticeable in December, which was a few months after she moved here," Dean reported, "but a lot of them occur near places where she spends a lot of time: work, home and the college." He looked at his brother, "The waitress?" Sam nodded, "One of Vera's friends DJ's at the club and she often goes to give him support. I checked the other places she says she hangs out and it's the same thing; ghosts wandering around doing what they did when they'd been alive." His voice didn't give anything away as he spoke and Dean was grateful. He'd had to call Vera because it would've been too odd if he'd asked Sam or Bobby to do it. The two of them had talked about ghosts and about where she spent her free time and the whole time he'd pictured her tied up, spread out and bleeding over her kitchen counter. From the heaviness of the pauses, she'd been thinking about it too.

"That's not good," Bobby commented and Dean wondered how he'd figured out what they'd done. Then he realized the hunter was talking about the increase in ghosts. "Even if they _are_ peaceful they aren't supposed to be here."

"Just like Vera's not supposed to be here," Sam commented.

"It may not be her causing this," Dean argued. He pulled out a map and circled the three counties surrounding Sioux Falls. "These ghosts are occurring everywhere in a pretty big area. Sioux Falls has the highest number of sightings but it has the largest population as well.

"What else could it be?" Bobby asked.

Dean had to admit he didn't know. "But all the towns around Sioux Falls are also having an increase. Brandon, Renner, Buffalo Ridge," he listed a few that he'd checked out, "Even Willett, the little berg outside your gates, has had a couple reports of dead people hanging out around the cemetery."

"But she's the only new element," Sam pointed out.

"That we know of," Dean pointed out. "Fact is, she arrived in August. These sightings didn't start up until late November."

"It might've taken that long for the spiritual energy to saturate the area enough for the ghosts to appear." Bobby suggested. "This part of South Dakota's not known for being a hot bed of paranormal activity, after all. The veil's pretty thick around here."

Sam was nodding his head and it _was_ plausible but Dean couldn't agree. He clenched his jaw to keep his instinctive protest in. He didn't know why, couldn't explain it, but he'd worked through all the research, looking up monster databases and news reports, and trying to piece together Vera's true identity from the little they knew about her. As he'd read through all the articles the feeling had grown in him that Vera had had nothing to do with the ghost invasion. Maybe her presence, as a kind of undead person, had made more of them show up or had made their forms clearer and easier for the average person to see, but Dean didn't think she was the cause.

How did he explain that to Bobby or Sam when didn't really understand why he thought it? Sam would just say he was thinking with his downstairs brain but that wasn't it either. Something was wrong, something big, and Vera wasn't it.

Of course there was another way to turn the conversation...

"So what if she _is_ causing all the ghosts to rise," Dean started. "What do we do about it? Kill her?"

Sam's mouth opened but he said nothing. He looked at Bobby; Bobby shrugged. "Uhh, exorcise her?"

"She's not a demon." In other words: waste of time.

"Banish her," Bobby suggested.

"By salting and burning her bones?" Which, since they had no idea where to find her bones, was another waste of time.

"We can't just leave her," Sam protested.

"She's not hurting anything or anyone," Dean argued. "If I remember, that used to be your benchmark for what was and wasn't a monster."

_...How certain are you that what you brought back is one hundred percent pure Sam..._

Sam's mouth thinned, "And yours was if it's supernatural we kill it."

Dean couldn't help the crack of laughter that escaped. "If we stuck to that rule then we'd have to kill each other." His laugh died when he realized that neither Sam nor Bobby were joining him. "Gallows humour," it was almost an apology "doesn't make it less true though." Sam shrugged, conceding the point but not happy with it. Dean sighed, "We've both changed a lot from those days, dude."

"Maybe too much." It was muttered, slurred and almost low enough that it was like Sam hadn't wanted it to be heard. Except if he hadn't wanted it to be heard, why had he said it? Dean frowned. Sam was very pointedly not looking at him so that meant that geek-boy _had_ meant to be heard just ignored… for now.

Fucking great, Dean sighed and went and got another beer. They were going to have another 'Important Talk About Stuff'.

So what if the guy was freakishly tall with muscles like an elephant, he was definitely a girl...

_We've got an update on those winds that were hitting just west of here.  
__Good news (finally): They seem to have died off and only minor injuries have been reported.  
__Big surprise: the US Weather Service has no explanation for what caused the freak storm.  
_

Night fell and they hadn't come up with a plan on how to deal with the ghosts, or Vera, or Sam's not-quite-dreams, and they certainly hadn't figured out how to stop the end of the world and Dean didn't care. He wanted to, he did, but what was the point? All that happened was good people died and nobody noticed. The world went on, spiralling down to its inevitable finish and despite that depressing little thought, he'd actually managed to grab few hours of solid shut eye.

He'd woken in a fairly decent mood only to have Sam confront him with a renewed argument as to why they shouldn't leave Vera alone. His brother's tone had been laced with anger and concern and that explained why they were currently sitting across the road from her apartment, watching to see if she did anything demonic.

It was dark with rainclouds and there was a soft pitter-pat of drops on the roof of the car. Sam had his window open enough that the windows didn't fog over but it still seemed like a separate world inside the Impala. Sanctuary and home and comfortable even when his sasquatch of a brother was sitting beside him in a brooding pout. Sam knew he was humouring him and he didn't like it.

Tough. At least they weren't _talking_...

As he sat in the car, not talking because they were munching on the burritos Sam had picked up, Dean tried not to think of what Vera had let him do, up there, in her small, cozy apartment. Not surprisingly he failed. And the more he tried to think of something else, the more it came back to him; red against ivory, muffled sounds of pain and pleasure, muscles clenching tighter than a fist. The _sounds_ she'd made...

He made sure the paper completely covered his lap and if Sam thought it was because he didn't want to drip on the seats, so much the better.

He wanted to do it again—Hells yeah—but it was a distant desire rather than the dark obsessive ache like it had been. Ever since he got dragged out of Hell he'd thought he'd missed it—the blood, the pain, the screams—but, until Vera, he hadn't really looked at it, certainly hadn't admitted that the desire was there inside him. He'd just pushed it away, buried it down, and refused to look at it as if it were a festering sore that would poison him if he touched it.

Well, he'd done more than just touch it and he was okay...better than okay. He felt a more at peace than he had since Famine had pronounced him empty. He wasn't going to jump up and do the happy dance or anything but he was feeling pretty good because, of all the evil and twisted things he'd learned in Hell and thought he'd enjoyed, of all the things he _could have_ _done_ to Vera, all it had took to satisfy his urges was a little blood and a lot of control.

That wasn't bad, like evil-bad. It was kinky, but still within normal.

He was normal...mostly. Sometimes.

"This used to be so simple," Sam said in the middle of nothing. Dean looked at him, silently asking for some context. "You and Dad hunted and I bitched about it."

"Fought," Dean corrected. "You and Dad fought about it."

Sam's lips lifted as he acknowledged the point. "Still, even with all the arguments—"

"—and the bitching."

"_And_ the bitching, it felt like we were doing something... Not _good_—though it was—but, I dunno," he shrugged, "Worthwhile, maybe."

"'Saving people, hunting things'?" Dean asked him, quoting a much younger, _much_ more innocent self.

"Yeah," Sam's laugh held no humour. "The world—_our_ world—was stable. You wanted to be a hunter and I wanted to get out," his voice trailed off as Dean just stared at him. "What?"

_...You don't know me. You never did. And you never will..._

Suddenly Dean couldn't stop the words, words he'd barely even admitted to himself. "I didn't want to be a hunter, Sam. I didn't want to be a freak with a gun collection and a bag of salt in my pocket. I did it because Dad trained me to do it. I did it because he needed me to back him up. And you needed me to protect you."

"But—"

Dean didn't let Sam speak though it was obvious his brother wanted to, but now that he'd started he might as well get the rest out. "I did it because I was good at it and somebody had to do it; no different from being a cop or a firefighter, right? Except that there's no way to tell people without them thinking you're nuts."

_...the guy I'm with—the guy I'm hoping might be in my future—tells me that he professionally pops ghosts..._

"It was my life—our life—so I made the best of it. I learned how to find whatever fun I could. Why the hell wouldn't I? I didn't know how to do anything else. I still don't." He glared at his brother a moment before turning away. He sounded like a whiny brat wanting every toy in the aisle.

It was silent except for the soft pitter of rain on the car.

"That's not true. You could've done a lot of other things." Sam finally protested, "You still can."

Dean snorted, "Like what?"

"You're a hell of a mechanic, for one."

Dean stared straight ahead, not even looking at his brother. A mechanic, he thought, of course Sam would see him with dirt under his nails. "It's a bit late for a career change, Sam. I don't think I can stop being Michael's vessel just because I hate the job description."

"And I won't stop being Lucifer's just because I get my anger under control. But I'll be safer, maybe. And happier. That's not a small thing." Sam reached out a hand. He held Dean's shoulder in a reassuring grip. "We can do this Dean." Dean snorted again and let Sam pull him around so they mostly faced each other. "We can. You and me. We'll figure it out."

Dean looked over at his brother, seeing him as he was when they'd been kids together. Then, Sam's eyes had been filled with curiosity, passion and a bright energy that could light up a room when he wasn't exploding his hormones all over the place. Now, all Dean could see was guilt, pain and a steely determination. He wanted his old Sam back and doubted it would ever happen. He gave Sam a small smile.

"Yeah, we'll figure it out." They'd been lying to each other for years, Dean thought, why change now? The lie was rewarded, as it always was, with Sam's uncertain-but-determined smile and the easing of tension from around the younger man's eyes.

The moment passed and they went back to watching the non-existent activity in front of Vera's apartment. Some kid was out walking a couple tiny mutts. An old lady was pulling a meagre cart of groceries, plastic cap tied over her head. A siren wailed in the distance.

"I wanted to be a firefighter," Dean said. He said it quietly—a statement of fact rather than a regret. "Ride in a big red truck. Save kittens from trees."

"And people from fires," Sam said it slowly as if he thought it significant. "It's kinda what we're doing now, right? Just more of them all at once."

"Whole fuckin' world," Dean agreed, six billion souls and counting.

…_how do you get up in the morning?_

"I found you! I didn't think I'd find you again."

Dean half pulled his weapon before he caught a glimpse of the kid hanging in Sam's window, looking at his brother like Sam hung the moon. Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam and mouthed 'again?' The kid was practically vibrating he was so excited.

"I mean, you're not even supposed to be here, and we meet not just once but twice—"

Maybe he had a crush on his geek brother. Dean smirked. "Something you want to tell me there, Sammy?"

Sam turned around and glared at him. "It's not what you think." Dean wiggled his brows knowing it would just piss Sam off.

"—so this must be destiny right?" the boy continued earnestly, completely ignoring the brothers' byplay. "I realize you don't know me but I'm loyal and strong and I'll work so hard for you. I'll get any body you want, for anything."

Dean frowned. This no longer sounded like a teasing matter. "Sam?"

Sam frowned back before turning to the young man. "Look, I'm not going to say yes so you might as well drop it and go back to wherever."

"You can have _my_ blood if that's what you need. I meant it when I said I'd do anything."

Dean had heard enough. He grabbed the cloth out of the glove box before opening the door and marching around to where fanboy was still pleading with Sam to make him his anything, which was just all kinds of wrong as far as Dean was concerned. The demon was so fixated on convincing Sam to let him be a minion that he didn't even notice Dean. The hunter tossed the cloth on the ground, lifted up the skinny demon and plopped him right in the centre of the pre-painted devil's trap.

"There you go, Hinkley."

The demon looked down at the design in shock. When he raised his eyes they were filled with heartbreaking disappointment. "I just want to serve."

"So get a job at Burger King," Dean replied. He started the exorcism, stumbled in the middle like he always did but this time Sam—real Sam—was there to pick it up just like that kid Gary had done when he'd taken over Sam's body.

_...You really are a good guy..._

The demon smoked out of the boy and was dragged through the devil's trap in a curling cloud. Dean didn't worry about the little flames because, for whatever reason, they never burned the cloth. Just one of those things that had to be accepted on faith.

The kid collapsed in Dean's arms so he caught him. He looked at Sam but he could see the silent plea in Sam's eyes to just drop it for now.

With a jerky nod he agreed so Sam grabbed a bottle of water out of the cooler and handed it to the kid. He seemed okay, disorientated and scared spitless, but essentially okay. There were no visible wounds at least. They took him home and got the boy settled and not once did Dean did say anything about leaving Vera unwatched but he knew Sam had done it unthinkingly because the asshole _knew_ that she wasn't really any kind of threat to them.

Rabid demon fanboys however...

"So, wanna tell me about your Mousketeer?" he asked as soon as they were back in the Impala. Sam shifted, giving away the fact that, yes, he'd known about his demon fan before he'd come up to the car and, yes, he knew that he should've said something before it happened again. "How long have you known you had a demonic Becky following you around?"

"It approached me yesterday at work. I exorcised it," he shrugged, "and figured that was the end of it."

"Damn it, Sam."

"It wasn't dangerous not, like, attacking people dangerous," Dean shot him a look because that was the exact same argument Dean was using to defend Vera's right to exist. Sam knew it too because his voice got louder. "How was I supposed to know that it would find another body and come looking for me?"

Dean had to concede that one because abject adoration hadn't been in the demon playbook before. "Still, if one demon knows where we are that means that soon Lucifer's going to know because they all report back to him. And he's going to send more demons after you."

Sam shrugged, a half-shoulder movement that indicated how much he wanted to argue but couldn't. "I guess."

"No, no guessing," Dean said with certainty. "He's already in your dreams, trying to turn you, but at least he didn't know where you were. Now he does and he's not going to give you up."

"So?" Sam asked.

"So..." Dean replied in a voice that said it should be obvious, "it's time for us to go. If we stick around they may come after us, or Bobby or any one of the thousands of people who live around Sioux Falls."

"It's only been a month," Sam protested.

"Is staying still working for you?" Dean asked, "'cause I'm not feeling any better about the Apocalypse."

"Some of the stuff I learned, you know, in time it... I think it would help."

"Do we have that time? Does the world?"

"So just pack up and go," Sam confirmed. He sounded despondent but resigned.

Dean started up the Impala and put it in gear. "We'll see if Bobby has any leads or maybe Cas." He flashed a sad smile at his brother. "Let's face it, Sam, living a life of 'peace, love and happiness' is like winning the lottery: only one in a couple million get to do it."

_Police confirm that the young woman, whose body was found this afternoon, was the city's fourth homicide  
__They state that, though it was a particularly brutal death, the victim wasn't random.  
__This means, here in the Falls, we've already tripled the rate of suspicious deaths over previous years.  
__We can blame the weather or the End of Days but it's still us humans doing this to each other. _


	9. At Rest

**Warnings**: Shameless lack of knowledge about police procedures

* * *

**Chapter 8: At Rest**

It was odd how easily they'd slipped into a routine, into their roles as Bobby's nephews.

Sam had to give notice at the Wellness Centre or, rather, tell them to keep his last cheque in lieu of notice. He had to sign papers terminating his employment and other legal stuff about liability and confidentiality. It was freaking weird because all he'd done was pick up crap after people. It's not like he had access to their personal files. But he dutifully filled in the little check boxes and initialled every line. Had he had a uniform? Yes. Had he returned it in good condition? Yes. Had he done this; did he agree to that...blah blah blah.

He hadn't done this stuff since Stanford. Then it had been fun and exciting—a symbol of his normal life. Now it was just annoying.

At least when he'd quit Sandover—his last 'normal' job—there'd been no paperwork. Probably because it had been an angel-based hallucination but still...it had been a lot easier than quitting this minimum wage job where he'd cleaned _toilets_ all day. He'd rather face down a chupacabra. Actually, he was looking forward to facing down one, facing anything supernatural in fact. He was more eager to get back on the road than Dean was...which was even weirder than the freaking paperwork.

Dean was cleaning up around Bobby's place, finishing up some repairs that were beyond the hunter now that he was stuck in a wheelchair. Sam knew his brother wanted to go over to say good-bye to Vera in person but he'd managed to convince Dean that he should phone first, make sure it was okay. Last he knew she hadn't answered and Sam carefully hid his relief at the news. His brother had enough to deal with without craving some woman who could make him go Dark Side.

Of course, there was no way he could ever say that to Dean.

Even playing the 'I know what I'm talking about because I've been there' card, it would come out sanctimonious and hypocritical. But Vera Holmes, or rather the woman occupying Vera Holmes, was a reminder of every bad thing that happened to Dean in Hell and his brother didn't need that. They were just treading water, and they didn't need anything to add waves to the pool.

Still, Dean _was_ looking better for having, um, cleaned his pipes—trust Dean to find sex recuperative to body and soul—so Sam was moderately hopeful that this was the start of a trend.

Maybe, with luck, things would start to look up for them.

His faint optimism lasted until he drove up next to the Impala and saw Dean standing—leaning—on her. His face was that same grey colour it had been after Dad died, and Ellen and Jo. He jumped out of his car and went to stand beside his brother. "What? What is it?"

"That was the cops..." Dean frowned and looked down at the cell phone, gripped white-knuckled, in his brother's strong hand.

"We've been found out?" was Sam's first instinct, "have the FBI have reopened our files?" which was his second.

"What? No." Dean frowned even harder but said nothing until Sam lifted his hands to wave at him. "Oh, um... That homicide yesterday? The young girl brutally murdered?" Dean stopped again.

"What..." Dean looked up at him. "Vera?" Dean didn't even need to nod for Sam to be able to read his answer. "Aw shit, man. I'm sorry. What happened? The cops have somebody in custody, they said."

"Her ex."

"The asshole?"

"Yeah," Dean's voice was quiet. "She knew he was a killer, you know. Recognized some things about him from her time in the Pit."

Sam's voice was equally as quiet in response. "I didn't know."

"Why would you?" Dean shrugged. He took a deep breath, tucking away his phone, looking off into the distance. Sam gave him the time to pull himself back under control.

"Why did the cops call you?"

"Because I drove her home from the hospital. Because my number's in her phone. Because someone saw me leave her place at three o'clock in the morning. Because I've been calling her. Pick one." He finally looked up at Sam. "They want me to go in and talk."

"Shit." Sam ran worried fingers through his hair. He was already calculating how far they could get in the Impala. They could fill up here—Bobby had a tank he had filled every couple weeks—but they weren't ready to go yet. The trunk wasn't fully packed. He paced, only a couple quick steps then back, but it was pacing because this could be really, really bad and there was no way he was losing his brother to the cops

"I'm going to do it."

Dean's soft statement stopped Sam cold.

"What? No you're not!"

"Sam I have to. I'm not a suspect," he went on before Sam could say anything, "They've got the guy and he's been charged. They just want to fill in some of the blanks."

"What if someone recognizes you?" Not likely, Sam admitted to himself but possible.

"From a wanted poster that's over three years old? For a crime two states over?" Dean looked at him again, doing that serious thing with his eyes that pleaded with Sam for understanding and acceptance. "You hacked the FBI database, you said, made sure Henrikson had cleared out our files there so that's no problem."

Dean's faith in his computer skills was flattering but a little more than they actually deserved. He was _pretty _sure Victor'd wiped their files but that wasn't _absolutely_ sure. Five minutes stolen on a police computer hadn't given him a lot of time to achieve certainty.

His brother hadn't finished justifying his craziness, "I've interacted with the locals here before and the covers you and Bobby built are solid. I'll go in as Bobby Singer's nephew Dean, just like I have for towing cars from accident sites. I've got cover for the calls and stuff," the older hunter said as if that made it all better.

Sam shook his head a little, unable to follow Dean's thought processes.

"I liked her but we're leaving so I've been trying to call to let her know," Dean explained. "Besides, it'll be better for Bobby if we leave _after_ the cops' questions are answered rather than before, right?"

God-_damn_-it! Sam fumed. He tunnelled through his hair without even realizing. "I just don't like the idea of you going into the police station alone."

Dean grinned and it was a pale version of his old give'em Hell smile. "That works perfectly as you've been invited to come in as well. You remember Trin? From the café?" Sam nodded because, yeah of course he did—black bra with little pink polka dots. "I guess she remembers you. She described you perfectly—me, not so much. Just as well you stuck around in the parking lot. "

Bloody Winchester luck.

_After days of snow and sleet, and just all over yucky weather, the sun has finally come out.—Yay!—  
Since it may not last, you should get out there and enjoy it.  
—The annual Clean Up the Falls is coming up; you can go to our website to sign up.—  
That's right. Maybe we can encourage that bright yellow ball to keep glowing  
if we make our town look pretty. _

The station was like most police stations: brick and bullet-proof glass and the police crest rendered huge in the middle of the entranceway floor. He went up to the desk to check in with the heavy-set officer glowering at the world from the other side. "Dean and Sam Singer to see Detective Harris."

The sergeant frowned at him. "And your business?"

Rude fuck, Dean thought. He put a mild smile on his lips. "He called me, asked me to come in." Damned if he'd give the guy anymore detail than that.

The sergeant gave him a comprehensive glance but Dean wasn't wearing anything to raise any red flags: no leather, no biker boots. He just looked...ordinary. He kept the polite smile on his face, one eyebrow quirked in question, until the guy finally agreed to call the detective down to the front. Dean nodded at the guy, knowing it would piss him off, and wandered back to where Sam stood looking into a display case filled with pictures from community events and charities that the police department had been involved in.

"He's on his way down." Sam nodded but said nothing. He moved his attention to the bulletin board with their updated crime stats and safety tips. Dean sighed. Sam hadn't wanted to do this, had argued strongly against it, in fact. Too much risk, he'd said, pointless gesture. Maybe, Dean acknowledged to himself, but it felt like the right thing.

He sat in one of the not-too-uncomfortable chairs and picked up a magazine. It reminded him of the hospital waiting room.

There was the young woman with a baby in a stroller and over there was the ghost of some guy walking toward the counter. The mother looked up and it was obvious to Dean that she didn't see the spirit and he wondered once again how it was that he could see them. He couldn't remember a time when he didn't see what most other people didn't. He knew Pastor Jim figured it was a result of being touched by the supernatural when he'd been a kid—opened his 'eye' or some such—and it made sense because he knew Dad hadn't seen anything before Mom had been killed. Still, if he hadn't been able to see the ghosts and ghoulies, would his life have been different? It would be kind of hard to be a hunter if you couldn't see what you were aiming for.

"Dean," someone called his name and Dean looked up. It was the sergeant from the accident sites. She was in uniform, as if it were still _that_ day and not a new one, and she had a friendly smile on her face as she approached. "What are you doing here?"

Dean stood up, desperately trying to remember her name, "Hey, Sergeant Miller." He held out his hand.

"Please, Rachel," she shook his hand. "After all, we shared stories over a severed arm."

"Good times," he said sarcastically and made her chuckle. Sam came up beside him so Dean waved at him. "Um, this is m'brother, Sam." Sam shook her hand.

"So, what brings you down here," she asked again, "Ambulance chasing?"

"Uh, no, actually," Dean hesitated. "Detective Harris called us in. He's investigating the death of someone we knew."

The smile dropped from her face. "I'm sorry," she said and her voice was sincere. "Detective Harris is a good man."

Dean nodded, "Thanks. That's...that's good to know." Sam's gaze focussed on something beyond their group and it pulled Dean's attention with it. A slim black man approached the group; cheap suit, half-opened tie—it had to be the detective.

"Sergeant," the man said, addressing Sergeant Miller but looking at them, "You know these men?"

She nodded, "I've worked with Dean a couple times." Her posture was straighter, more formal. She did the introductions before Harris pulled her aside for a quick conversation. They spoke quietly but there was nothing in the lobby to cover their talk—even the baby was quiet. Dean caught 'vet' and 'recently discharged' and he realized why he'd been called to the accident that day. It wasn't because he could handle the blood; it was because she'd thought he was just back from Iraq and needing a break.

Oh honey, he thought, I wish it had just been Iraq.

Still, he could see Harris' face soften sympathetically the longer the sergeant spoke and, as much as it felt kind of douche-y, he was going to let them think he was a returned vet if it meant fewer questions asked.

It didn't take long for the cops to break up their little conference. Sergeant Miller said good-bye and left through the main door. Detective Harris invited them upstairs where Harris' partner, Detective Amenguale joined them in a half way cozy room with half-way comfortable chairs drinking half-way decent coffee. It was a lot different than the cinderblock rooms and bolted down furniture he was used to. Then he realized he'd never been interviewed as a witness before. Whenever he'd talked to the cops it had either been as a suspect or as another law enforcement officer. He actually didn't know how to do this—be an innocent civilian 'helping the authorities with their inquiries'. How pathetic was that?

"So, Dean Singer, nephew of Robert Singer of Singer Salvage, and occasional tow-truck driver, how did you meet Vera Holmes?"

'She was on my rack in Hell, only I didn't know it was her at the time,' probably wouldn't cut it.

"My brother heard some people talking about this ghost that was hanging out at this club so we decided to check it out..." He ran through the story he and Sam had agreed on in the car, keeping his answers simple and straightforward, waiting for the cops to ask for more information rather than offering. After all, as an innocent civilian, he didn't know what was important for the cops to know. He glanced at Sam occasionally, as if seeking corroboration, making sure to keep it casual but concerned.

"She filed a report," Sam said, "The two deputies—" he turned to Dean, "What were their names?"

"Officers Dietrich and Yamana," Harris stated, "We've already talked to them. They said Ms. Holmes left the hospital with Dean."

"That's right," Dean confirmed.

Harris smiled, eyes cold, "What happened then?"

"We, uh, talked some. In the car, I mean." They already knew, Dean thought. They knew someone had slept with her, someone other than the asshole. He also knew that his prints and hairs and, oh god, his semen would be all over her place. He shifted uncomfortably. He didn't want to talk about it. He'd give something away. "Then we went upstairs to talk some more."

Sam snorted, "You slept with her. You can say it, Dean." Dean glared at Sam but Sam just shook his head and talked to Harris. "Dean doesn't like to kiss and tell but I was awake when he got home and he had that look, you know? Loose-limbed and sleepy?"

Dean blushed with the power of a thousand suns, "From my walk? _How_ does that give it away?"

Sam smirked, "Because I walk the same way when I get laid."

"Really, _really_, didn't need to know that."

Their byplay got a smile out of Detective Amenguale but Harris ignored it. He reminded Dean of Henrikson who'd been a good man if a little confused. He couldn't help but hope, once again, that _this time _the guy was someplace safe from interfering demons who yanked people out of their eternal rest.

Harris' voice brought him back to the present. "So you had intercourse with the victim?" Dean nodded slowly. "Just once?" the detective prodded.

Okay, this whole 'innocent bystander helping with inquiries' thing officially sucked and he was never doing it again.

Dean shook his head but Harris wasn't satisfied with that. He had to know how many times and where. It was beyond embarrassing into a whole other world of mortification. It didn't matter that he and Sam had been living in small motel rooms together for the last five years—and he'd been bragging bullshit for even longer—there were things that his baby brother just didn't need to know about him. At least when Harris asked if Vera had liked it rough, Dean's face was already red and he was already squirming so his lie that they'd kept it pretty vanilla was buried and nobody was ever going to figure out different.

Until Harris brought out the photographs...

In an odd way he'd forgotten about the markings, that he'd done them and that they'd show up in the autopsy because in the end, they hadn't been that big of a thing. For him, what they'd done together hadn't been about her pain or the blood, not really. It had been about having Vera tied up and helpless, it had been about being in complete control of his world.

Sam leaned over the table, one long finger poked at the glossy pictures, turning them around. Dean knew when his brother recognized the markings underneath the obvious wounds because his breath caught and his shoulders stiffened. Sam covered it well though. "This is what he did to her?" His voice was filled with soft outrage and horror with a tinge of sadness. It was the voice Sam used to create empathy with witnesses when they did interviews and it covered a lot of what Sam was really feeling.

Ever since he'd gotten out of Hell, maybe even before that, he hadn't felt in control of much of anything in his life. Sam leaving, Dad dying, old Yellow Eyes chasing them down, then his deal and the clock ticking inexorably down to midnight. Angels and destiny and prophecies and, fuck, when was his life ever going to be just his life again? For a few brief hours, with Vera tied up and spread out below him, he'd had that control. The protections he'd carved had been a way of extending that control even after he'd left, a piece of him still there, still working, still protecting the people he cared about.

His protection hadn't lasted long and it hadn't protected Vera against the right bad guys.

_...you can't save everybody, Dean. Hell, these days, you can't save anybody..._

Dean didn't want to know what Sam was really feeling but knew he'd find out eventually.

"These symbols were present." The detective laid down some hand drawn facsimiles of the protections Dean had carved into her skin. "Do they look familiar to you?"

He flicked his eyes over the photos before focussing on the drawings the cops had made of the symbols. "Um," he made himself sound unsure, "That one looks like the thing witches wear, or wiccans, whatever they are."

"Like Nicole Kidman in Practical Magic," Sam tossed out because average guys would associate one of the world's most powerful sigils of protection with a witch movie featuring two hot actresses. It was normal and unsuspicious so Dean nodded agreement.

He looked at the next drawing: the mystic cross with its intricate interwoven lines. He gave the cops credit because they'd tried to draw it accurately but they'd done a really crappy job. "That looks Irish. And those are...arrows?" He looked up and hoped he looked concerned rather than guilty. "What do they mean?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss that, Mr. Singer."

Cops actually _said_ that?

Sam was tracing the drawing of the mystic knot, following the lines as they wove back in on themselves. "Why would he do this?" he asked, "He said he loved her."

It was an honest question. Dean could tell that his brother felt truly bewildered by what the asshole had done. He stared at Sam and wondered how he could still ask that question after all that they'd seen and experienced, all that they knew. "Because sometimes people just suck, Sammy." He felt three hundred rather than thirty.

As if that had been a key, Detective Harris backed off. His partner gathered up the photos and the drawings and put them back into the file. Harris asked a couple more questions, about why he'd been phoning her all day, what their plans were; was Dean willing to give a blood and hair sample so they could rule out his DNA for when this case came to trial.

Sam frowned, "I thought you had a confession."

It was Detective Amenguale who explained that confessions were often recanted, especially once their lawyer showed up. Apparently, the douche's had.

Ignoring Sam's silent command, Dean agreed to everything. He wanted that homicidal asshole in jail because he agreed with Sam. The guy said he loved her. You don't stab the person you love a couple dozen times because they'd moved on.

_...I'd go back to school, be a person again...I'm not going to live this life forever..._

He pushed the memory aside. Those knives had only been verbal and time had proven Sam wrong anyway.

It was another hour before everything was done—thank Christ he hadn't had to cum in a cup—then Harris was walking them to the front entrance. "How can I get hold of you," the cop asked. "In case something comes up."

"Call Uncle Bobby," Sam answered.

Dean nodded. "He knows how to get hold of us."

They walked out into the thin sunshine and that was that; another episode in the fucked up story of their lives, finished. Or mostly. Dean braced himself because he knew what was going to happen as soon as the doors were closed.

Sam didn't fail him.

"What were you thinking of?" Sam spat out as Dean backed the car out of the narrow stall. "Cutting protection sigils into that girl's skin?"

Dean's shoulder hunched defensively. "I knew what I was doing."

"What the hell does that mean?" Dean stayed silent but he could feel Sam's scowl sinking into him, forcing the answer out. Sam wasn't going to let this go. "Dean."

"She asked me to, alright?" This time the silence was on Sam's side, demanding more. Dean sighed. "She developed a taste for it down in the Pit but she didn't trust anyone around here not to make a mistake, cut too deep."

"And she trusted you?" There was a world of disbelief in the young hunter's voice and it set Dean's teeth to grinding.

"Yeah, well, she knew my work." It was a cheap shot, a reminder of what he'd done so that Sam could live, but maybe it would shut him up. He glanced at his baby brother and the guilt was there but also an anger that was new.

"And you said I'd gone off the reservation." Sam waited for a response. Dean watched the road instead. "Do you have any idea how sick that is?"

_...what's the matter, Dean? Don't you remember all the fun you had down there..._

He had to pull over, had to stop. His hands were shaking he was so mad...and he was scared and freaked out and...and _grieving_ because he had liked her and now she was dead.

He concentrated on mad because it was easier.

"Do I know how sick that is?" he repeated voice flat and not shaking like it wanted to. "Yeah, I do, Sam. But, for the first time since I got back, I didn't feel like it...like _I_ was something scummy stuck to a shoe. That all the horrible, _horrible_ things I'd done down there, hadn't left me all tainted and twisted and vile, like I'd always thought. All this time, every time I had to face down some creature, I've been worried that 'Dean the Apprentice Torturer' was just waiting inside me, ready to take over like it did..."

His breath hitched and he fought for control. He had to focus on this one part of everything or else it would all burst out of him and there'd be nothing left. He'd be hollowed out and oozing on the pavement, like leftover shape shifter skin. "I enjoyed torturing Alistair."

"That's understandable, Dean," Sam's voice was soft, kind, filled with real empathy not the fake stuff he'd used on the cops. "It was like revenge, right?"

"It was ugly and I hated that I enjoyed it but I couldn't stop myself and I couldn't help wondering about the next time I picked up a knife. Would I linger? Would I slide it in slow just to watch their agony? Would I care if the one I was cutting was even guilty of anything?" Sam opened his mouth to comment but Dean cut him off. "In the future, in 2014, I was torturing people, or demons I guess, though they used to be people. Nobody in that room even thought it worth commenting on. I guess it was pretty common for me to do it. I confronted myself but future me didn't blink or flinch or even care that there was a person being torturing along with the demon."

"That's not you," Sam stated quietly, "That future isn't going to happen."

Dean didn't even bother commenting on that bit of wishful thinking. The future wasn't the point of this little rant anyway. "You're right that isn't me. And I know that because, as I held the blade and, and, y'know," his hands recreated the lines he'd drawn that night, "it wasn't her pain I got off on. It wasn't. It was her pleasure."

He could feel the heat in his face and he couldn't look at his brother but he had to keep going. Had to make Sam understand that he wasn't going to start cutting up random women. That he wasn't a monster, not really.

He swallowed and forced the words out. "She trusted me to keep her safe, to give her what she wanted without going that one step further into true torture. She put herself under my control completely... and I didn't let her down. She enjoyed it." He could still remember the sounds she'd made. "We both did."

Dean hadn't put on the radio so there was only the sound of the traffic to fill the silence between them.

"Consenting adults, huh," Sam said half question, half understanding. Dean said nothing because what was there to say. Somebody drove by and they could hear the bass thumping through the Impala's closed windows.

Then Sam snorted, "You carved ancient and sacred protection sigils into a woman's skin...for sex." Another snort, "You don't think that was a little...sacrilegious?"

Dean turned to stare at his brother. That was it? That was all Sam 'sex is a deeply intimate act between people who care about each other' had to say? Sam's jaw was tight, his eyes were narrowed, but he was trying.

"Although you could argue that sex, in many cultures, is considered a spiritual act so, in a way, it fits." He stretched his neck and took a breath. "You're not a monster, Dean. You never were, not even in Hell. The demons wanted something from you in Hell and they did _whatever_ it took to achieve that. They made you believe... I dunno, up was down, left was right, light was dark."

Dean wanted to argue but Sam raised his hand to stop him. This time when he looked at Dean, his eyes were concerned but not angry, not judging. "Vera was right. I did some reading and, given enough time, everybody breaks and they never really go back to being who they were before." Sam ducked his head, embarrassed or guilty; Dean wasn't sure which. "You're still a good person, Dean."

Now _Dean_ was embarrassed. He didn't feel like a good person. He didn't feel like much of anything really just a stubborn determination to not let the angels win. Although he was beginning to think it would be a pyrrhic victory at best.

_...you're not hungry, Dean, because, inside, you're already dead..._

Famine or Sam, one of them was wrong.

Dean squinted up into the pale sky. "C'mon, Sam. We can still put some decent miles on today."

"We could stay at Bobby's one more night," Sam countered. "Start early tomorrow."

"Nah." There was no way they would fix anything by sitting around Sioux Falls. People hadn't stopped dying just because they'd opted out of the race for a bit...not that he'd expected any other result. No matter what Sammy hoped, there were no miracle cures for what they suffered from.

"Are we at least going to get something to eat before we go?" He stared at Dean and waited for his answer.

Dean took a breath, trying to connect with it, to 'be in the moment'. It was supposed to help, they said, but the air didn't smell sweet or fresh or cold or anything. It was just air, and this was just another day. Was he hungry?

_...you're not a lesser man than your father was. You're just you and that's good enough for me..._

"I could eat." He opened his door. "You know, I'm actually going to miss all those home-cooked meals. You really _would_ make someone a good wife, Sam."

Sam sneered, "Bite me."

"I'd rather have lasagne."

Somehow, Dean thought, somehow they'd find a way to muddle through. They couldn't change their past and the road ahead was always just more of the same but they had each other and that counted for a lot.

_It is finally spring break and all my brain cells are jumping for joy.  
I don't know about you but I plan on going to Mexico and leaving our weird ass weather behind.  
Me and my crew are gonna get in the car, drop the top, and blast the tunes.  
For anyone else heading out: drive safe because I'll be out there with you and I like my life._

* * *

They were three days out of Sioux Falls, deep in the heart of cowboy country, when the radio crackled and the twangy guitar died. No great loss, Dean thought, it would give him an excuse to put something decent on. Then the radio started up again and Three Days Grace started singing about pain.

Dean turned the knob, changing the station...and found Three Days Grace. It was the only thing playing no matter where the dial was.

"Shit," the older hunter muttered; he knew what it meant.

"What's going on?" Sam frowned.

"It's Vera," he answered, "She's still out there."

_Fin._


End file.
